


What the Storm Brings

by silverandviolet



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Dragonstone AU, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-03-26 01:00:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3831313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverandviolet/pseuds/silverandviolet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>After all, what does the storm bring but destruction and despair?</i><br/>AU: Stannis Baratheon raises Daenerys Targaryen from infancy and nothing is ever the same again. </p><p>[A prequel fic to a much larger venture, exploring the butterflies of this 'verse before Jon Arryn's canonical death.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stannis

**Author's Note:**

> Conceived from a prompt on the Miscellaneous ASOIAF Thread on alternatehistory.com.
> 
> A few words, for both new readers and returning readers:  
> 1] This is, first and foremost, A CHARACTER FIC. I am more interested in showing what changes happen to a character's motivation and psyche because of changed circumstances than showing exactly how someone killed someone in a battle. An exploration, if you will, and yes, this -- and the upcoming sequel -- will be a slow fic. I'm sorry if that's boring for you or whatever, I genuinely apologise if you came into this thinking so, but as I said, I'd rather have well-rounded characters than continuous action. This, after all, began as a timeline on AH.com, where I daresay butterflies trump unnecessary drama.  
> 2] This is also A POV FIC. Each character has a different outlook on the same event, which offers for a much wider range and it is, I feel, much more of a writing exercise than simply telling how things happened. So, yes, there will be introspection and every person will think his way the right way. Every man is the hero of his own story, after all. If you think Robert Baratheon is being bashed (addressing this because of the complaints I've seen) it is in NO way because I hate him or whatever; on the contrary, I consider myself a huge fan of his and it is the Targaryens I despise. However, the points of view I've chosen have varied opinions of him, and if somehow my supposed hate is coming through, it's because the events are biased from a certain point of view.  
> 3] This is merely a prequel fic to a much larger, much more sprawling upcoming endeavour, _How the Throne Reaps_. I don't think this will be required reading, however.
> 
> Now that that's out of the way, thank you for arriving here and I hope you enjoy my humble attempt at an AH! :D

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A promise.

Dragonstone was an ancient fortress, built with the long-forgotten crafts of Valyria on the face of the Dragonmont volcano. Its towers themselves were shaped like dragons, figures made of stone so dark that whispers spoke of how they had been snatched from hell itself by the Valyrians of old. Stannis himself put no stock in such rumours; he put no stock in anything that had to do with the gods, after all, but he too had to admit that they were frightening to look at. He had never been here before but as a child he could remember his grandmother telling him about it. Rhaelle Baratheon, born Targaryen, had lived many a moon in her family's castle. Stannis could not shake off his memories of her as the gates came into view.

"Deal with the dragonspawn," Robert had told him between cups. "With that whoreson Rhaegar's mother, and her wretched son. You're my brother; sail to Dragonstone and end this war."

 _Is it so easy for you, brother? To order the deaths of a woman our father once spoke lovingly of?_ Stannis wondered.  _Is it so easy for you, to make me a kinslayer?_

Ser Jaime Lannister had dealt with the Mad King, breaking his vows and discarding whatever shred of honour he had once possessed. Lord Tywin's men had dealt with Princess Elia and her children. Now it was Stannis' turn.  _Deal with the dragonspawn_ , Robert had said. No true man should hurt women and innocents, he knew, but his brother was now the king. His duty was to his king, and Stannis Baratheon was _nothing_ if not dutiful.

The garrison had surrendered the castle. It was a stormy night, and they clearly did not wish to fight against seasoned men that far outnumbered them. Another stormy night from the years past came to Stannis' mind and he nearly shuddered.  _What would you have done in my place, Father? Your blood or your liege? Have I made the correct choice?_

Just like that night, a parent was to die tonight, by a King's word if not hand. 

 _Am I doing the correct thing, Mother?_ he thought futilely, as though he would receive an answer. Stannis mentally chastised himself on realising sharply that he had been thinking of his own parents again.  _Foolish, foolish. They are not going to answer._

The mad King's sad Queen, and her young child.  _Deal with the dragonspawn,_ the loud voice of his brother echoed through his mind.

Wind boomed through the Stone Drum of Dragonstone as he walked in. A few of the household knights bowed to him but he paid them no heed. Cowards and lickspittles, the whole lot of them. There was only one man he had eyes for: Ser Willem Darry, the castellan and once master-at-arms at the Red Keep. He had been the one to negotiate the surrender.

"Where are they?" he demanded to the aging riverlands knight. The man narrowed his eyes and frowned.

"Have a care how you speak about Their Graces, my lord, it was on the Queen's instructions that I even agreed to meet you," he spat. "Were it my choice, we would have taken the fight to the Usurper's ships."

He was a loyalist, then.  _As though your men would have consented to fighting under a raging storm, ser_ , Stannis wished to retort cynically. But this was not the time for such, and once more the guilt crept up to him.  _It was on her instructions that I even agreed to meet you_ , Ser Willem had said. The Queen Dowager yet lived, and had allowed him into the castle.  _Deal with the dragonspawn_ , had been Robert's words. He would walk out of Dragonstone with a host's blood on his hands.

Stannis ground his teeth. "Show me the way to  _Her Grace_ , then, ser," he relented. This was not going to be easy.

The keep was as haunted from inside as outside. Its walls showcased tapestries belonging to the age when Valyria had yet thrived across the Narrow Sea. It had once been the westernmost outpost of the Freehold until Doom. Dragonstone's first Targaryen lord, Aenar, had brought his family here before the fires had taken their home. The irony was not lost on Stannis. Rhaella Targaryen had brought her family here before the Lannisters had taken her home. It seemed Dragonstone was very much the home of exiles.

A woman's cry led him away from his thoughts. Agony, despair, pain... they all seemed to blend in the walls of the Stone Drum. In front of him, Ser Willem Darry stiffened. As the screams grew closer, Stannis understood just how bad the situation was.  _Queen Rhaella_ , he knew.  _Queen Rhaella is the one screaming_. _  
_

Which meant the rumours were true, as Stannis was loath to realise. Spies had indicated that the Queen might be with child, and the only other time he remembered hearing such terrifying cries from a woman was when his lady mother had given birth to Renly. A babe would be on its way.  _Deal with the dragonspawn_ , he could hear Robert say.

Ser Willem walked inside the chamber first, Stannis following him to see a woman on the bed, her silver hair disheveled and her face contorted in misery. There was a pool of blood that had gathered around Rhaella Targaryen. Her recalled how once she had been the image of beauty, serenity and regality. Now she looked like any other woman bringing a child into the world. Stressed; suffering. Lonely, even.

It was a baby girl that the midwife carefully handled, her cry shrill and thundering as the storm that prevailed outside. The last child to bear the name Targaryen, if Robert could help it. Tiny silver hair decorated her head, and Stannis had no doubt her eyes were a deep indigo.  _  
_

The former Queen held her daughter close, beaming at the bundle in her arms and whispering, "Daenerys. Daenerys. Daenerys, stormborn."

Daenerys Targaryen. Only one of the children to be  _dealt_ with today.

"The princess of peace," Ser Willem Darry murmured beside him. Indeed - the first Daenerys Targaryen had sealed peace between Dorne and the rest of the realm years ago. The gods were making mockery of him, Stannis knew. _Deal with the dragonspawn_ , Robert had ordered. This Daenerys Targaryen would be a princess of peace of a sort, too, ushering in a new era for the Iron Throne. 

Not for the first time, he wondered how his brother's friend Ned Stark would react if he knew what Robert had demanded. The northern lord had argued vehemently at the deaths of Elia Martell and her children. What would he say if he knew about Rhaella Targaryen and _her_ children?

She saw him on looking up from her babe, and widened her eyes. There was wonder, surprise in them, inducing Stannis into a frown. The Queen Dowager made to get up from the bed, but her health would not permit it.

"It is better to rest now, Your Grace," the timid young midwife urged. Rhaella Targaryen shook her head, her gaze still on him. 

"Steffon," she whispered.  _Oh_ , Stannis realised.  _She thinks I am Father_. He could feel the discomfort and hesitation in him.

"I am not Steffon, Your Grace," he answered stiffly, but Rhaella Targaryen did not heed him. She was looking at him in a strange, unearthly way.

"Steffon," the Queen Dowager repeated. "Oh, Cousin, they told me we were being sieged, but I knew... I knew someone would come, and you did."

He felt his voice catch in his throat.  _No one ever thought I looked like Father_. Stannis turned to Ser Willem, who was frowning at him. He was mouthing something that curiously sounded like 'go to her'. At a loss of words before a delirious woman, he felt utterly out of place and confused. Ser Willem was louder then. "Go to her," he urged, with a murderous gaze. 

Stannis did so.

"My name is Stannis," he stated to the Queen. "Stannis Baratheon. Lord Steffon's second son."

She shook her head, turning back to the babe in her arms. Rocking little Daenerys Targaryen gently, she said, "Baratheon... Baratheon... Of course, my Aunt Rhaelle's son... My Cousin Steffon..."

The woman was getting on his nerves now. Could she simply not understand that he was Stannis, not Steffon? He desperately looked around the room. What was he even doing in this room? He ought to have found the boy, the Mad King's son. What was he doing with a crazy woman and her sickly babe?

The Queen looked back at him, full of desperation, worry and fear outlining her face. "Steffon," she cried. Stannis felt helpless. "Steffon, you must protect her. Promise me, dear cousin. Protect her... And treat her kindly, yes. My Daenerys. My _daughter_."

He had never felt this out of touch with reality.  _Protect her from whom, Your Grace?_ He could yet remember when he and Robert had accompanied Father to King's Landing. "Oh, Stannis, you're my dear cousin's son, you must call me Aunt Rhaella, of course," she had smiled at him.  _Aunt Rhaella, do you remember me? Do you know what has happened outside these walls? Do you know why I am here; who sent me?_ _  
_

The thunder crackled outside.  _Deal with the dragonspawn_.

"Promise me, Steffon," Rhaella Targaryen cried, between her wary gazes at Daenerys and the midwife holding her back. "Protect her, and my Viserys, oh Ser Willem, where is my sweet boy? He must see his sister, of course."

Stannis looked on as the old knight fumbled and excused himself, throwing a warning look his direction.  _He knows_ , Stannis thought.  _He knows why I am here. He knows what I am to do_. _  
_

"She does not have much time left," the midwife told him, as though that was supposed to mean something. To him, it only meant one Targaryen less to deal with himself.

He could remember another woman, silver-haired and violet-eyed.  _Grandmother_ , he wondered,  _do you know what I have been told to do?_  Outside, the storm battered.  _What would you have done in my place, Father?_ _  
_

"Promise me, Steffon," the Queen Dowager cried urgently. "Protect them, _please_ -"

_Protect them from whom? Myself? My brother, the new King?_

When the boy came in, tears in his eyes, Stannis felt even more discomfort wash over him.  _I shouldn't be here._

"Viserys," Rhaella Targaryen called. "My son, meet your sister. Daenerys."

The midwife encouraged the boy and he walked ahead, gently moving his hand to the babe. Stannis remembered being just the same once, when his own mother had given birth to Renly. Ser Willem frowned at his dumbfoundedness from the other side of the Queen. Disapproval. Disgust. Disdain.

"You must be a good brother to her," Queen Rhaella was saying to her son. The boy was weeping.

"Mother! No! You must stay! You aren't going to leave us! No, Mother!"

 _Had I ever cried like this?_ Stannis thought.  _Had I cried like this when the Windproud went down and my parents were lost to this world?_

He did not remember. He had stared at the scene before him, and muttered the prayers the Septon had taught him. He had called for the Father, the Mother, the Smith, the Crone, the Maiden, the Warrior, the Stranger. He had asked them to spare his parents. But they had not done so, and Steffon and Cassana Baratheon had drowned with the rest of the ship.

He had never prayed after that. Neither had he weeped.

Stannis was brought out of his reverie by his father's cousin's urgent voice once more. "Cousin, you must protect them. Viserys, and my daughter. Daenerys. You will protect them, won't you? Let no harm come to them. Promise me, dear Cousin. Promise me."

 _I am not your cousin_ , Stannis wanted to snap.  _I am his son. I am not Steffon, I am Stannis._

The woman was losing too much blood. Her end was near. His gaze fell on the children, newborn Daenerys and seven nameday old Viserys.  _The Mad King's children_ , a voice that sounded suspiciously like Robert whispered.  _Your cousins_ , another said.  _Deal with the dragonspawn_ , he remembered.  _That whoreson Rhaegar's mother, and her wretched son_.

Deal with them, not kill them. For Robert it likely meant the very same. Stannis thought of his father, speaking to this woman before him, and reminiscing about their time running around King Aegon the Fifth's court as children.  _You must call me Aunt Rhaella_ , she had told him during her husband's reign. Now her husband was dead and her cousin's eldest sat upon the throne.  _  
_

_Do you know what you have asked me to do, Robert?_  he demanded to the image of his brother in his head.

The boy, the babe and the woman all seemed to stare at him, awaiting his answer. Ser Willem scowled from the corner, and the midwife was fussing about impatiently. 

 _They're your kin_ , a voice hissed in his head.  _They must die_ , hissed another.

"Protect them, Cousin," Rhaella Targaryen had said.

"Promise me, Cousin," she repeated now.

 _I am not your cousin_ , he wanted to say.  _I am the man who has been sent to deal with you. To secure my brother's dynasty; to make sure no one rallies behind your son. I am not Steffon. I am not my father._

But he was not his brother, either.

 _Deal with the dragonspawn_ , Robert had said.  _Deal_ with them. Not kill them. 

 _This is not what duty is_ , he chastised himself. _Finding loopholes._

Stannis could see his mother now, talking with the Queen, both holding their newborn sons close. It had been a moon prior to the journey to their journey to the Free Cities. Renly Baratheon and Viserys Targaryen, second cousins, and Queen Rhaella had decided that they could grow up together in the future. Lady Cassana had been hesitant even then. Court was a dangerous place, especially so after Duskendale. Still, she had smiled and nodded. "Like our husbands," she had said. "Like our husbands," the Queen had agreed. _  
_

Innocents always died in war, he knew. Women, children, they all perished when carnage came to the realm. This was how the world worked. He had learnt that the hard way, cooped up in Storm's End for near a year, starving while the Mad King's men had feasted outside the fortress. The population of the castle had dwindled gradually, but he had never thought of surrendering. Renly cried about asking the men outside for food, but Stannis himself never once considered such a thing. Robert had told him to hold their home, not lose it. He had done just that before damnable Ned Stark had broken the siege.

"Steffon," Queen Rhaella had called him, though. What had he hoped to achieve by walking into the castle like this? 

They were his kin, he knew. They were threats to his brother's reign, that too he knew. 

 _But death is not the only way for threats to be eliminated_.

"You will protect him, won't you?" another woman had asked of him long ago. At the harbour, about to board a ship. Renly had been a babe then, but Stannis had promised his mother. "I will," he had said firmly. "I will."

The dying woman, the weeping boy, the newborn babe. They had never played a part in the war. They were guilty of no crime; no abduction and no murder.

_What are they dying for, then? For being born with the last name Targaryen? For being family to mad men?_

Stannis thought of the smuggler he had left on his ship, whose fingers he had chopped off for his illicit activities just as he had knighted the man for saving Storm's End. "You are a cruel man," Robert had said with distaste on hearing that. Stannis had ground his teeth. "No, I am a just man," he had replied. _  
_

_What sort of just man does a deed such as this?_

_Deal with the dragonspawn_ , had been Robert's words. Deal with them. Not kill them.

Rhaella Targaryen's face bore into his.  _Forgive me, Brother_ , he thought.

"Promise me, Cousin," she had asked of him. He knew what he had to do.

"I promise," Stannis replied.


	2. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A concession.

The raven arrived at King's Landing weeks after the newly built fleet had set sail with the new ruler's heir in command. One of the Arryn guards placed near the rookery had alerted Jon to its presence, and as such the man had been rewarded handsomely. Grand Maester Pycelle was turning out to be much of a Lannister creature, thus the Hand of the King was rather glad that he had been the first to know - it would not do for either Tywin Lannister or any of his informants to know about the events at the last firmly Targaryen keep before him.

What was most surprising at first glance was the fact that Stannis Baratheon, assumed Lord of Storm's End, had addressed the letter not to his kingly brother but instead to Jon himself. Then again, it was not at all a well-kept secret that there was no love lost between the two brothers. "Damn it, Ned," Robert had sulked once when they had been having dinner at the Eyrie. It had been after a visit by Lord Steffon and his second son, who had not seemed much enthused by anything, least of all meeting his brother. "You should have been my brother, not Stannis." 

Ofttimes Jon wondered whether the reason his once-ward was so fixated on Lyanna Stark was because he wished to have his foster brother be his brother by law as well. _To disregard your own kin so much, my boy..._

Robert had always been a headstrong, wilful young lordling. Confident and sure of himself, even more so than Jon's nephew Elbert. It had come as a shock when as an eight-year old he had befriended the quiet, reserved second son of Lord Rickard Stark. That had been one of the main objectives of the fostering, of course, but upon meeting his two foster sons initially he had been worried they might never become friendly. They had, however, and soon Robert had begun seeing Ned as more his brother than the boy running Storm's End on his behalf and the babe who would never remember their parents. Perhaps that could be understood, still, as Robert had not grown up with Stannis and young Renly, but Jon had an inkling it went beyond that. For Robert, blood of the covenant was thicker than the water of the womb, and always would be so.

As such, Jon worried about the words spelt out in rigid, square writing before him.

_Robert would never dream of going against his own brother. He would spare the children..._

Yet there was a voice whispering in his head, sounding much like his other foster son. _Would he, though?_

Hard as Jon tried, he often found it difficult to forget the scene in the Throne Room when Tywin Lannister had presented Robert with the bodies of Princess Elia and her children. He was sure that mayhaps after more time had passed it would be easier to pretend it had never happened, but for now the memory was fresh in his mind. "Dragonspawn," Robert had spat, with a glint in his eyes Jon did not like. For a moment the King had been a different person entirely.  _You're not the boy I raised_ , he remembered thinking desperately when the glint had turned into a curl of lips and approval at Lord Tywin.  _You're not Robert. You're not him; you can't be._

Jon had held his tongue for most part.  _Robert is a young man with bloodlust and revenge on his mind; he did not mean to. He would never have done it himself. Just because he accepted it as a token of fealty does not mean he liked it. He put on a show for the court. He is not so far gone._ Many a night after that he had lay in bed staring at the ceiling, repeating those words to himself like a prayer. He had kept quiet and served loyally as his foster son's Hand.  _This will never happen again_ , he had told himself. Eddard had not been so restrained about the matter and had instead lashed out at Robert. It had nearly come to a duel between the two, and they had certainly not parted on the best terms. Jon feared how the King's reaction would be to the news that his brother of blood had much the same opinion as his brother of choice.  _Or that I have the same opinion myself._

 _Robert is a reasonable man_ , he told himself.  _He would never do anything rash and antagonise his heir or any of the Targaryen loyalists; not now that the war is over_.

Unfortunately, in the heart of his heart, Jon knew that Robert was not the slightest bit rational when it came to the previous ruling House.

He called the Small Council to meet the next day, and ensured that word reached Robert multiple times that an important situation regarding the last of the 'dragonspawn', as he preferred calling them, was to be discussed. That might have been the only thing that distracted the King from his other... _activities_  and brought him to sit at the head of the table with the Grand Maester, Lord Tully, Ser Barristan, Ser Kevan Lannister, Lord Varys and himself. Jon did not doubt the eunuch spymaster already knew every word of what had gone down in Dragonstone, and wondered when he had planned on disclosing it. Pycelle likely knew as well, tipped off by the raven, and told Lord Tywin who in turn would have infomed Ser Kevan. All the secrecy in the chamber made Jon sick. His explanation of the events was no more than a formality to these councillors.

"We have received a raven from Lord Stannis at Dragonstone," Jon began steadily. There was a series of exchanged glances between Ser Kevan, the Grand Maester and the eunuch. Robert leaned forward eagerly.

"Well?" he demanded. "What did my brother do to that whore and her spawn?"

Ser Barristan shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. Jon knew that another person not at all fond of the King for his reaction to Princess Elia's murder was the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard himself. The famed knight did not wish to hear about more innocent deaths and Jon found it hard to blame him. 

He hesitated. Robert and the Council waited for an answer. Sighing, he read aloud from the parchment. "'To Lord Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, Warden of the East and Hand of the King, from Stannis -'" _  
_

"Yes, yes, we know the titles. Go on, Jon, tell me about the dragonspawn," interrupted Robert. Jon's voice caught in his throat for a moment, but he read on.

"'The garrison of Dragonstone surrendered to me once their ships were destroyed. Dowager Queen Rhaella no longer walks among us. Her Grace passed from the world after birthing a daughter, named Daenerys in honour of the princess of peace. I hold Viserys Targaryen and his sister as my wards while I take charge of the island and root out any would-be traitors to the Iron Throne. I ensured their mother as she lay dying that they will be taken care of by me and remain under my protection until they come of age. We will board the  _Fury_ for King's Landing once I have been assured that no harm will come to my wards.'" _  
_

The Small Council all varied in their responses to the letter. Lord Tully seemed nonplussed, somewhat, while Ser Barristan looked considerably relieved. Varys' faces hinted amusement, perhaps, but he was a hard man to read - Jon could never know what he was thinking. Ser Kevan and Pycelle were unmoved, already knowing all that he had read. Robert, on the other hand...

"This is an outrage!" he spat with undisguised anger, standing up and banging his fist on the table. For a moment Jon almost thought there was enough force in him to shatter the Red Keep with a single thump. Robert's face was reddening as he gripped an imaginary warhammer with his right hand.

"He could neither be quick enough to deal with them before that _whore_ could give birth, and neither did he have enough loyalty to me to  _obey his king_! This is what I get from mine own blood." Robert was boiling in his own disgust. "Get out. All of you.  _Out_. No, Jon, you stay."

The councillors shuffled out of the room. Jon waited for the man before him to calm down his nerves.  _Robert, my boy, I beg of you, do not do anything that will come and bite you in your back later. We have enough troubles in front of us as it is._ Indeed, there was much to worry about even disregarding the last Targaryens - Dorne had not yet bent the knee, and after the murders of their princess and her children, Jon very much wondered if they intended to. He would have to personally go to Sunspear to negotiate a deal. It would have to be done. He was not going to let Robert rule over a broken realm, and no matter how much his once-ward was good at leading an army, even dragons had not conquered Dorne. Peace was the only option.

_Peace is your only option as well, Robert._

"He argued with me, you know," his once-ward said suddenly, face contorted in an ugly manner that did not suit him one bit. "At Storm's End, when I spoke of calling the banners. The Mad King calls for my head, you rise up in revolt, and my own _brother -_  he advises me not to take up arms against the crown! Now he might as well take that boy, barely weaned from his whore of a mother's teat, as King. No doubt he would want to be that dragonspawn's regent." Robert growled. "Stannis never liked that I was the one meant to be Lord of Storm's End and not him. I'm King now, so he could not me content with me being his liege, now, could he?"

Jon could not say that he knew what went on in Stannis Baratheon's mind, but Robert's revelation unnerved him. Earlier, he had not even considered that the heir to the throne might have another plot going, but now... Was it truly possible for the boy, barely a man if truth were to be told, to crown a rival to his brother merely for a chance at regency? Was the man capable of that?

"Robert -" he began, trying to be the voice of reason, but the young king cut him off.

"I placed all my trust in him, damn it, I told him to bring Dragonstone to heel. How does he repay me? My blood, my heir, my own  _brother_. The _Others_ take him."

Thinking back, the few brief conversations Jon had had with the king's brother had spoken much about his personality. Stannis Baratheon was a dull, humourless man, but he did seem steadfast in his duty to his brother king. He  _had_ held Storm's End for near a year, after all. No, Jon Arryn did not think he was going to betray Robert.

"Robert," Jon called, a tad gentler than how one might speak to their ruler. "Perhaps we should give him safe passage here, hear what he wishes to say before making assumptions. Besides, it would go a long way to heal the wounds of war and placate the Targaryen loyalists if they see the last two of their former liege alive and treated well. We take the two children in, perhaps, and raise them to be loyal to the crown. The boy can be sent to the Wall if you so desire it. The girl married into a House loyal to us; a House that would never rebel. Ned's son, perhaps? This need not prolong the war -"

"They are dragonspawn," Robert replied harshly. Jon was taken aback.  _No, my boy, this is not you, why are you being like this?_

Another approach had to be taken, then. "Robert, the girl was born  _months_ after her father died. From what I remember from visiting King's Landing before the Rebellion, the Queen sheltered the boy from his father all day, every day. The Mad King burnt innocents alive, my boy. You must understand. To order them killed would be unholy and unjust. They're only children."

The murderous glare he got back at the implication of Robert being similar to Mad Aerys was not easy to bear. Jon had never been on the receiving end of his foster son's fury.  _Who are you?_ He searched for the boy with the laughing eyes and the easy smile in the man before him.  _What happened to the Robert Baratheon I saw as my son for far too long?_

"Their brother took my Lyanna. My betrothed. My  _lover_ ," Robert said. "Their father  _murdered_ a Lord Paramount, and your brother and heir besides. You would have them live? Truly, Jon? You would have dragonspawn such as them draw breath while Elbert's and Ser Ronnel's bones lay forgotten in a ditch somewhere in Flea Botton?"

Jon did not need reminding. He impulsively narrowed his eyes at that. _Ronnel, Elbert... I have avenged your deaths, have I not?_

"The Mad King and Prince Rhaegar are dead," Jon reminded him. "They were the guilty, and they paid for it as was their due. Viserys and his newborn sister have commited no crimes. They have raped no women, burnt no lords. They should not have to pay for their family's mistakes."

The young king stayed still in his place, gazing at Jon with thinly veiled irritation. " _Targaryens_ , Jon. You wish to protect Targaryens, now, do you? Perhaps you and Stannis should become their champions.  _Traitors_ , the whole lot of you."

Jon had seen enough of Robert's mood swings in the past ten years, but this... "Your Grace, you must understand," he tried instead. "They are not at fault. Your brother may have been wrong with his words, but you cannot deny that he is only doing what he believes is right. You need to bring peace into the realm once again, Your Grace. Those two Targaryens are the key to that peace."

It did not have the most desired affect, but Robert betrayed doubt for some part. Nevertheless, Jon's words were not appreciated in that moment. "Get out, damn it. Out,  _now_ ," he was commanded. Knowing that the seeds had been planted and that his liege would now be left to ponder upon them, the Hand of the King obeyed.

He came up with plans later in the day and sent a cautionary raven full of suggestions to Stannis, hoping the boy would listen. His young wife then alerted him to a summon by King Robert, and Jon let out a breath he hadn't realised he had been holding. 

His once-ward was standing by the window of his solar that overlooked a garden. There was a goblet full of Arbor Gold in his hand, and he did not even budge when the guard announced Jon in.

"Fine," Robert relented. "Tell my traitor of a brother that no harm will come to the dragonspawn in the Red Keep. This will be on you, though, Jon. _One_ thing goes wrong,  _one_ mistake - it will be on your shoulders."


	3. Willem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A submission.

They bid farewell Queen Rhaella on a triangular pyre on the sands of Dragonstone the day after she passed, her skin near as pale as her hair, looking so gaunt yet so very beautiful. It took Willem everything to stay rigid as the fires took her, flame by flame, the cries of dragonseeds and wails of faithful Targaryen servants growing more and more prominent as the last true Queen of Westeros burned away until only ash and charred bones remained. There would never be a consort as regal and as deserving as Rhaella Targaryen, that much was clear. He could not have been prouder to have served her.  
  
Now Her Grace was gone. She had lost her final battle against a birthing bed though there had been a victory in it as well, in the form of the little stormborn princess. Daenerys was her name. She was the one thing King Aerys had desired for years -- a daughter to wed Prince Rhaegar and bear the heirs to the throne -- and the one thing he had received only after his death.  _Perhaps if she had been born earlier…_  But Willem could not afford to think of might-have-beens and never-weres. What mattered was the present: the Usurper sitting on Aegon the Conqueror’s throne, his murdering Lannister good-family, and the sullen boy who was his brother.  
  
It had not been an easy thing, to surrender. “Protect my blood, old man,” King Aerys had told him months prior, after they had received word of Prince Rhaegar’s death on the Trident. “Burn my treacherous cousin Robert and any of his dogs if they come knocking, burn all of them, but protect my blood if it’s the last thing you do.” Yet Queen Rhaella had known of the siege and hoped to earn mercy for her children, insisting that she would rather try her luck with Stannis Baratheon than set Dragonstone aflame and hundreds of innocents with it. Gentle, caring Queen Rhaella, with a woman’s heart. He had nearly not listened to her.  
  
“Need I remind you who I am, Ser Willem?” she had chastised him moments before delirium had taken her. “Daughter to a king, sister-wife to another, and mother to one in name, though I am afraid that shall not be the case much longer. I intend for my children to survive this ordeal, ser, and if that means Robert Baratheon bears the title that should have been Rhaegar’s, then so be it.”  
  
His loyalty had been to her, before and after the death of King Aerys both, and in the end he had done as she had ordered. She had wished for her children to be safe, which they would be. None would lay a hand upon Prince Viserys or Princess Daenerys so long as he lived, and he did not intend to die anytime soon.  
  
“A promise is all well and good, boy, but tell me, why must I believe that you will not harm my charges in any way?” he asked the Usurper’s brother once last rites had been carried out. They walked up the steps from the beach to the castle together, flanked by stormlander knights that followed every movement of his closely. One of them was a pox-stricken man who looked ever suspicious of Willem’s every move, inducing him into a glare. _If I wanted to kill your false king’s brother, I would have done it by now_ , he could not help but think.  _Instead I stay, and bide my time, so that the young prince and his sister have a chance at life._  
  
Stannis Baratheon was a moody person who Willem had not quite measured up yet. He ground his teeth at the question and scowled. “Do you doubt my honour, Ser Willem?” he asked in turn. “Do you doubt that I will not stay by my words?”  
  
_I doubt that you will be allowed to, or be able to_ , Willem thought, but he did not say that aloud. Instead, he said firmly, “I merely wish to know your intentions regarding my charges.”  
  
“They are  _my_ charges now, ser.” The boy scowled again. He looked far older than his twenty namedays, truth be told, with shadows lining his eyes and his hair so thin that it could be mistaken for balding. He had seen near a year of siege by Mace Tyrell’s forces, and it showed in him clear as day. In another life Willem might even have pitied the boy.  
  
“Be that as it may. I remain the man who swore to defend them, and protect them with my life if it came to that. I hold to my oaths closer than most men alive --” Baratheon scoffed at that. “-- and let me tell you, Prince Viserys would be my king had Her Grace not wished otherwise. I mean for them to be safe, both him and Princess Daenerys. My Queen believed you to be her beloved cousin in her moments of delusion, and I’d rather you not take any advantage of that fact.”  
  
He stopped. There was nothing else to say. In all honesty, loathe as Willem was to admit it, he was at this boy’s mercy. The Baratheon men far outnumbered the Dragonstone garrison and the stormlander knights, the pox-faced bastard especially, watched him like a hawk. Had there been some time between Princess Daenerys’ birth and the arrival of enemy ships, he would have gone forward with Monford Velaryon’s plan to smuggle the last Targaryens to Dorne or to Braavos, but alas, the weather had not cooperated. Here he was instead, bound by his oaths, helpless, and the hostage of a boy nothing more or less than a rebel.  
  
Baratheon turned to meet Willem’s eye. “Do you think me another coming of Tywin Lannister?” he demanded snappishly. “Is that it? Do you think me capable of ordering the deaths of two children for nothing more than a sign of loyalty to my king?”  
  
He scrunched up his nose in disgust. “I am not a butcher, ser,” said Baratheon. “I am loyal to my king and brother, yes, but I am also loyal to my word, and that of the law. The prince and the princess committed no crimes, thus they deserve no punishment. I have taken them under my protection, where they will remain until they come of age. Whether you wish it or not.”  
  
Baratheon remained resolute. Willem narrowed his eyes and spoke sharply. “If you believe your return to King’s Landing with Prince Viserys and his sister will be celebrated by your brother, boy, then I do believe you are mistaken.”  
  
“I know very well how much celebration King Robert will undertake,” Baratheon snapped. Then he cleared his throat, as though it were something he ought not have said, and gazed at Willem with an inscrutable expression. “What happened to Lord Stark was unjust, and the Mad King paid for it. What happened to Lady Lyanna was unjust, and your Prince Rhaegar paid for it. Queen Rhaella may have thought me to be my father in her duress, Ser Willem, but I am not one to turn my back on an oath I made because of it. Prince Viserys and Princess Daenerys shall not suffer for the crimes of their family. This I can assure you.”  
  
He was a boy who stuck to rules and to laws, Willem realised later. He brought back the order that had long since left Dragonstone by punishing the criminals as was appropriate and gelding even the few men under his command who had happened upon a pretty dragonseed or two and turned raper for the night. He sent out ravens to all the Narrow Sea lords, informing them of the capture of Dragonstone and ordering them to bend the knee else face the wrath of the Usurper. Stannis Baratheon was the false king’s brother and often a tad too harsh for a lordling, but Willem found out bit by bit that if there was one thing he truly believed in, it was justice. As long as the two last Targaryens did nothing unlawful, they would be safe.  
  
That did not mean he was not resentful, however.  
  
Each day Willem spent as little more than a prisoner guarding Princess Daenerys’ nursery, he pushed out thoughts of a world that never was. He pushed out thoughts of a vengeful Dorne and a loyal Reach that may have helped him put  _King_ Viserys in his rightful throne. He pushed out thoughts of Robert Baratheon’s skull bashed in, and the dogs Stark and Lannister made to suffer for their crimes. Perhaps Rickard Stark’s death had been unjust, but what of his arrogant son threatening Prince Rhaegar’s life? What of his silly daughter, who surely must have spread her legs for the desire of becoming a royal mistress? What of Tywin Lannister, feigning to be a friend but instead nearly razing King’s Landing to the ground? What of the Lannister bannermen who had raped Princess Elia and killed her children? What of that slimy Kingslayer, who had broken the greatest oath he could possibly have sworn and murdered his own king in cold blood?  
  
Aegon the Dragon had created Westeros as a whole; given birth to the Iron Throne and united the realm for years to come under the shadow of dragonfire.  _Only dragons can keep the Seven Kingdoms together_ , thought Willem every day he gazed at the infant princess.  _Only Targaryens, and these stags are fools to think otherwise._  
  
He had been only fourteen when he had fought the Battle of Wendwater Bridge alongside King Aegon the Unlikely and Ser Duncan the Tall. Merely a squire, and yet the king had ordered his own maester to look at his injuries before one of his Kingsguard. “See to the squire first,” His Grace had instructed upon seeing Willem’s injured shape on his way to the camp. “I will not see any harm come to him because of rash healing, maester. He may not be Kingsguard or even a man grown yet, but he is as much human as you and I.”  
  
Willem had served the scions of Aegon the Fifth loyally since then -- near half-a-hundred years -- and not once had he looked away. He had been Commander of the Gold Cloaks for a time, then Master-at-Arms of the Red Keep while his younger brother Jonothor donned a white cloak. His elder brother Lymund had served as Master of Coin for a few moons during the reign of King Jaehaerys. Now the dragons had been reduced to two hapless children while their traitorous kin ruled a city they had built.  
  
Perhaps it was ironic that the Baratheons were themselves descendants of King Aegon the Unlikely as well. Willem remembered Princess Rhaelle, from whom the Usurper derived his claim, clear as day. She had been a young girl when her elder siblings had broken their betrothals and married for love, and it had been her who had had to pay the price for Prince Duncan’s mistake. She had been raised more by the Laughing Storm and his wife, truthfully, and been more Baratheon than Targaryen. Her son Steffon had been King Aerys’ childhood companion, the one he had wished to replace Lord Lannister as Hand had the ill-fated sea voyage not cut his life short. Had the Usurper’s father lived, the day might never have dawned upon Westeros that raising the banner of the three-headed dragon was considered treasonous instead the norm.  
  
Willem’s brothers were dead now. Lymund, bless his soul, had passed a moon before the Tourney of Harrenhal, and Jon had given his life on the Trident besides Lymund’s eldest sons. All that survived of House Darry was Willem himself, his youngest nephew Raymun, and two nieces Mariya and Jeyne.  _All for being loyal to the true cause..._  
  
Often he looked at Prince Viserys and felt anguish.  _I should have crowned you_ , he thought.  _I should have fought for your rightful throne._  But the Reach had bent the knee and Dorne was like to follow soon. What could Willem have done? He was a loyalist and would be so till the end of his day, but now his loyalty was to the late queen’s last words and to the hope that House Targaryen would live on… perhaps even to fight another day.  
  
He was summoned to the chambers where Stannis Baratheon had taken up residence a few weeks after the surrender to discuss the impending voyage to the capital. The news had gone around the castle that they would be sailing at first light the next day, which meant that the Willem’s own fate would have to be addressed at the earliest. There had been enough delay already.  
  
The choice he was given was simple. “Bend the knee to my royal brother before court and live, or don’t, and die. Or be sent to the Wall, if that be your will. You’ll find there are quite a few loyalists wearing the black now,” said the sullen stag.  
  
Willem stayed stiff. “Will I be allowed to stay a sworn shield for the prince and the princess?” he asked.  
  
The Usurper’s brother grunted. “Bend the knee, swear to the old gods and new that you will never take up arms against King Robert and his line, and you may remain in service to Princess Daenerys.”  
  
“Not the prince?” Willem asked, eyes narrowed.  _What have you planned for them?_  
  
Stannis Baratheon regarded him warily. His eyes flew to the desk that separated them, where there were sheafs of parchment organised neatly into a pile. He then looked up to meet Willem’s eyes.  
  
“The guard around Prince Viserys had been tripled, Ser Willem, I can assure you that. No harm shall come to him,” the boy said, not truly answering the question asked.  _Perhaps an altercation with his brother?_  
  
“And what can I expect to be in store for the two of them in the future, boy? I can not imagine Tywin Lannister standing steady while Prince Viserys lives,” Willem spoke. Baratheon visibly soured in front of him. He knew what was at stake.  _Lannister’s grandson will sit a throne that does not belong to him, and he will not want anyone to threaten that reign._  On hindsight, perhaps that was why the guard around the prince had been increased; to ensure no assassin hired by gold from Casterly Rock could come near the last male scion of Aegon the Conqueror.  
  
“Tywin Lannister will not dare defy the Lord Hand or the king,” he said, though there was some doubt on his face that was nearly completely masked. “Lord Arryn intends to foster Prince Viserys himself or with Lord Eddard Stark at Winterfell in a year’s time, while Princess Daenerys stays under my protection.” Baratheon hesitated. “We shall be pushing for her to be named Lady of Dragonstone, to be married to Robert’s heir when the time comes.”  
  
Willem contemplated this. “If Princess Daenerys is to be the  _Lady_ of Dragonstone, then what of Prince Viserys?” he asked. Baratheon bristled at his tone and shook his head.  
  
“He shall take the black when he is of age. If it appeals to him, perhaps he can earn a chain at the Citadel and then take the black. He has an ancestor at the Wall, I hear, serving as a maester. If Prince Viserys wishes so, he may train to replace the man upon his death.”  
  
_He means to end the Targaryen line once and for all, while also letting it live through the Usurper’s line._  Willem understood the play very well. _Taking a leaf out of Orys Baratheon’s book. Where he ended Argilac Durrandon and married Argilac’s daughter, Robert Baratheon ended Aerys Targaryen and intends to marry the little princess to an unborn son of his._  
  
He examined Baratheon’s face.  _The Usurper’s dog is what you are, though perhaps a tad more honorable than the hounds Stark and Lannister._  “Why would you surrender Prince Viserys -- your  _charge_ , need I remind you -- to the mercy of Lord Stark or Lord Arryn, when they are not the ones who swore to protect him?” Willem questioned. What he had come to sorely dislike in the moons since the Usurper had rebelled was men who knew their duty yet failed to do it.  _You rose up against your rightful king and toppled the greatest dynasty the world has ever known. You told the last true queen that you would protect her children and assured me no harm would come to them, but now give one of them away with no resistance whatsoever._  
  
Baratheon ground his teeth, something he did quite often, and gave a withering look. “I only do as I am commanded, Ser Willem,” he responded. “As much as it grates me, it is better Eddard Stark or Jon Arryn and not Tywin Lannister. Or do you want that instead? Your dragon prince raised in a rock of lions?”  
  
Willem sneered. “I’d rather he be on the Iron Throne, boy, but we both know that is not like to happen,” he said. Stannis Baratheon glared at him with all his fury. “So I will bend the knee and stay besides the princess if that is the only way I can honor my oaths -- even if I am the only one wishing to do so.”  
  
Lord Steffon’s second son looked away, still grinding his teeth. “You’re not,” he snapped, giving a wave of his hand. It was a gesture of dismissal. Willem gave a last glare in his direction and left the room without a moment’s hesitation, the pox-faced knight trailing behind him as always.  
  
He returned to his place by Princess Daenerys’ cradle to see the young king-in-another-life staring at his sister. Viserys Targaryen did not visit his sister often -- it brought back memories of his mother’s death -- but when he did come to the nursery, his eyes scarcely left the little babe in a bundle of red cloth. The prince sensed Willem entering and spoke without looking up.  
  
“Ser Davos says I am to leave for the Red Keep with Cousin Stannis tomorrow. Will you be coming with us, Ser Willem?” he asked, referring to the Shorthand, a sailor-knight in the Baratheons' employ. Willem had heard stories of how the man was a smuggler who had been the true savior of Storm's End. He was unsure how he felt about a Targaryen royal talking with some upjumped criminal.  
  
“Aye, my prince,” Willem replied, all the while also cursing how Prince Viserys had taken to calling Baratheon his cousin. It had taken root the night Queen Rhaella had addressed the man as she would have Lord Steffon, and even though the Usurper’s brother had barely done more than share a few silent suppers with him, the prince did not seem to mind the man much. “Cousin Stannis reminds me of Rhaegar,” he had whispered to Willem one day. The silver prince had been a quiet and reserved man, yes, but the similarities ended there. Not that he had told Prince Viserys such.  
  
“Dany would love to see King’s Landing, don’t you think?” the prince wondered of his infant sister. “I want to show her  _everything_ one day, but she’s too little now, isn’t she? Do you know if there will be other boys for me to play with? Ser Davos says Cousin Stannis has a brother who has seen as many namedays as me. Do you think he would like to chase cats, like Rhaenys --”  
  
Prince Viserys stopped suddenly, as though the reality of the situation had unexpectedly hit him. He quickly turned his head away from his sister’s cradle, his eyes welling up with tears.  _Oh, my poor, poor boy_ , Willem thought, as he edged closer to his prince and bent down to touch his shoulder. _You have lost far too much at a far too young age._  
  
“Come, my prince,” he said softly. “Perhaps your septa can take you to Aegon’s Garden. You would like that, wouldn’t you?”  
  
In the end, the prince decided to stay in his rooms that afternoon. He clutched his mother’s crown and stared outside the window to the skies. “Do you think Mother’s watching me, Ser Willem?” he asked, his voice quivering. “And Rhaegar, Elia, Rhaenys and the babe Aegon? Father, too?”  
  
Willem swallowed. “I believe they are, my prince. They are watching you and watching out for you. Protecting you from --”  _the Usurper and his men._ “-- from those who mean you harm.”  
  
_Just as I am, and damn what these stags want, will continue to do so until my dying breath._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was supposed to have featured Bobby B and gang, but after I lost the original document, I had to write something different. Willem is meant to be a Targaryen loyalist through and through, but he's a man who's had to compromise so that Viserys and Dany are safe and without a bounty on their back -- as Rhaella wanted -- so I hope that got through. By the end of this, Arryn and Stannis have exchanged two letters or so, discussing what to do with the kids, and as much as Stannis dislikes how he's having to ally with someone who's supposed to be his brother's man, he knows it's probably his best chance to keep his own neck as well as his promise. JA has also instructed him to keep around Viserys only and only the knights he trusts explicitly, which is why he tells Willem to stick around Dany instead. 
> 
> Cheers.


	4. Doran

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A consideration.

Jon Arryn was an old man. That was the first thing Doran had noticed about him. The Lord of the Vale and Hand to the Usurper was tall, thin, frail and always had a look of tiredness about him. He was proud as well, true, but most times any man with half a brain could tell that he walked with the worries of a hundred lords and the burden of the Seven Kingdoms on his shoulders.  
  
The slightly pitiful part of it was that it was, in fact, true.  
  
“My argument is simple, Lord Arryn,” the Prince said. “Tell me yourself, why should we bend the knee to a man who does nothing for Dorne in return? Who treats us no better than the scum at his feet; who refuses to give us any form of the justice he promised when he rose up against House Targaryen?”  
  
Oberyn stirred beside him. “What my brother means to ask is, why should we become subjects of the man who took his throne over the bodies of our niece and nephew? Of our sister?”  
  
Arryn shook his head. Besides him, the treacherous spider Aerys had brought to Westeros shifted. In his silky voice, he said, “Ah, what happened to Princess Elia and her children was  _unthinkable_ , my princes. King Robert deeply regrets it, however, I am afraid it remains unknown who it was that committed the atrocity. Even my little birds… they cannot fly  _everywhere_ , I am afraid.”  
  
Doran wanted to scream at him, and had he been a lesser man, he would have.  _Gregor Clegane. Amory Lorch. There. Was that so hard, Spider? Tywin Lannister, Robert Baratheon. All of them. They are the ones who did it, in fact or by their word. They are the ones who killed Elia, Rhaenys and Aegon. They are the ones I want dead._  
  
Yet there was something in eunuch Lord Varys’ portly demeanour that perturbed him. Elia had told Doran much about this Master of Whisperers, who it seemed had switched allegiances from Targaryen to Baratheon the moment he could. There was a glint in his eye, though, and a smile tugging at his lips that spoke another tale.  _What game are you playing, Spider? What side are you on?_  
  
It was his brother who expressed all that Doran felt to Arryn. Oberyn outwardly looked the image of mirth, but all his rage was visible in his eyes, shaped like those of a viper. “It is a curious thing, perhaps,” he announced, “That all of Dorne knows the names of those…  _abominations_ , while the esteemed Lord Hand does not, and the famed Lord Varys besides, with his wide reach and supposed legion of spies. I did not know the Usurper’s council was this incompetent.”  
  
Varys looked amused. “If you say so, my prince.”  
  
Lord Arryn appeared to be considering a reply, but Oberyn was not finished. Doran saw the mirth on his brother’s face fade away. “Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch. Whose knights are they, Lord Arryn? Hmm? Lord Varys, perhaps you would like to inform your superior if he is unaware.”  
  
“The Lord Lannisters’s,” the Valelord replied tiredly, and sighed. “I assure you, my princes. Lord Tywin had no hand in the despicable murders. His bannermen acted on their own, whoever they may be. There is simply not enough proof –“  
  
“Lord Arryn, I take you for a sensible man. An honourable man,” Doran interjected.  _You are foolish if you think I am buying each bit of nonsense you spout from your mouth. You and this dubious spymaster of yours._  “I reiterate my earlier question. Give me one reason, only one reason why I should continue to pay my fealty to the Iron Throne, and I will consider it. One reason is all I require.”  
  
The Lord of the Vale was at a loss of words. Varys looked on curiously. “There will be concessions given to Dorne, of course,” Arryn said instead, “King Robert spoke of a reduction in taxes, perhaps even something akin to a charter.” His watery eyes flicked to Oberyn. “A king has the ability to legitimise those born on the wrong side of the bed as well. If that is something my princes wish, it can be done.  
  
“Lord Renly Baratheon rules Storm’s End, and I hear he is of an age with the young Princess Arianne. A betrothal can be arranged, if that please you, Prince Doran.”  
  
Oberyn narrowed his eyes and stood from his chair. “You seek to  _bribe_ us, do you, Lord Arryn?” He moved closer to the old envoy until there was not much distance separating them. “Do you?  _Do you_?”  
  
“Oberyn,” Doran called in a warning tone. However much he himself wished to strangle Arryn alive, this was not how things ought to be dealt with. His brother snarled furiously and with a last withering look at the Hand, he strode out of the room.  _Good_ , Doran thought.  _Let them know how serious we are._  
  
Once the heavy door closed behind Oberyn, Doran pretended to sigh. “I apologise for my brother, my lord.”  
  
Lord Arryn waved it off. “It is no matter,” he said tiredly.   
  
“Prince Oberyn’s…  _tenacious_ nature is well-known,” Varys shook his head, feigning sadness. “We do not begrudge him for mourning his lady sister.”  
  
For a few moments, silence reigned in the solar, leading Doran to scrutinise his opposites. Arryn, loyal to an enemy, and Varys, of loyalty unknown. How he wished this moment had never come! He wondered what would have happened had he sealed off the Dornish boundaries and simply isolated his domain from the rest of Westeros, rather than deigned to entertain envoys and peace offerings. Oberyn had suggested it after they had received news of the two last Targaryens – who might have been used as instruments to receive justice – being captured by Baratheon forces. Other prominent lords under him had thought it the most logical option from the very day King’s Landing had fallen; Yronwood included. He had held on to his options, though.  _There is more than vengeance I must think of, how much ever I desire it. Dorne, its people, my lords and my House. Oberyn, Mellario, Arianne and Quentyn. I owe it to them to not be blinded by hatred._  So far, truthfully, that was proving difficult – at best.  
  
“We heard of the fall of Dragonstone,” Doran said finally, breaking the quiet. It was something he had been curious about. “That two of Queen Rhaella’s children yet live.”  
  
He did not call them King Aerys’ children, at which there was a surprised flicker in Jon Arryn’s eyes. “Prince Viserys and Princess Daenerys, yes,” the Hand said, in a more even tone than before. Doran suspected this was a topic of much debate even in the Usurper’s trusted circles.  _His brother defied him in it, after all, as the rumour goes. That does not bode well for a new dynasty._  
  
“The Lord Stannis holds the two as his wards,” Arryn offered. “The young prince is to be sent to foster north with Lord Eddard Stark once he has seen eight name days.”  
  
Lord Varys made an incomprehensible sound. “Winterfell shall suit him well,” he stated. Doran nearly narrowed his eyes in suspicion.  _The Wall, then. Is that where the boy will go when he is of age?_  It made surprising sense, in fact: the last male Targaryen heir, raised in harsh, unforgiving conditions in preparation for the harsh, unforgiving future that awaited him. In contrast, had he escaped, Doran might have considered making him king many years down the line – mayhaps Arianne would have been his consort, to make up for the queen Dorne had been denied in Elia. But that was not something to dwell on.  
  
“I see,” recognised Doran. He had never met the Usurper in his life, let alone the brute’s younger brother; but if his abnegating Robert the bodies of the Targaryen children spoke of the character of Stannis Baratheon, he could wager that he would have been a better figurehead for rebellion than the one Arryn and Stark had chosen.  _Had he been the one to attack King’s Landing, Elia would have lived_ , thought Doran.  _But the gods were cruel, and it was Tywin Lannister who led the Sack instead._  
  
He thought about it even later that day, staring into the depths of the Shadow City beyond the Winding Walls of Sunspear. The humid air brushed past him and he almost shivered at how there seemed to be tension in it as well. The slums extending westward from his castle were lively as ever; the brothels and alehouses bursting with people. The shops belonging to men of trade were a varied bunch: some yet running, others silent as the crypts where Elia’s body had been buried alongside her children’s mangled remains. "A token from King Robert, as you were owed," Varys had said quietly. Doran had wished to strangle him then.  _What do you know of tokens, eunuch? What do you know of what Dorne is owed?_  
  
Mellario came to him that evening. Or perhaps it was Areo Hotah inquiring whether the prince wished for her ladyship’s company that night – Doran did not quite remember. Neither did he recall what he had replied; only that he had stayed alone for hours by the window, staring into the abyss of memories long past. His lady mother giving birth to a sweet, delicate girl child after what had befallen Mors and Olyvar. Little Elia relishing the Water Gardens with the not much younger Oberyn. Her blooming into adulthood; a soft beauty with a quick mind and wicked wit. The wedding to Rhaegar – when his sister’s title of ‘Princess’ had taken a new meaning entirely. The births of Dornish-looking Rhaenys and Valyrian-looking Aegon; the silent pride on Elia’s face each time she looked upon the wonders she had created in her womb. Her daughter a princess, as she had herself always been, and her son a prince who would one day wield the power of king.   
  
There was a numbness in his mind that dulled the music playing below in the courtyard.  _Who_ would  _have wielded the power of king_ , Doran anguished, realising his mistake.  _Not anymore._  
  
But Dornish were not meant to regret and toil over the mistakes the centuries had made. They were meant to endure. To prevail.  
  
That was how his brother found him: Calm, brooding, deep in thought. The guards had been instructed to not let any in without explicit permission, but Oberyn had always been the exception. He was hot-headed, unashamed and vengeful – yet Doran knew he was not unintelligent, with a half-forged chain from the Citadel, and cunning even, with an expertise in poisons and treachery that Doran himself had only lukewarm experience in at best. His brother would always be welcome to the Prince’s Solar. The guest he had brought with him, on the other hand…  
  
“It is late,” Doran commented icily. “Our…  _talks_ can wait for the morrow, Lord Varys.”  
  
Said eunuch giggled, but did not reply. It was Oberyn, instead, who spoke on his behalf. “Brother, you must listen to this! No better news has arrived in Dorne in  _years_. We were fools, holding out hope for Viserys when… Well, it is better you hear the tale yourself. We shall get our vengeance now.”  
  
The gleam in Oberyn’s viper eyes stood prominent in the solar. Varys was the image of amusement, quiet but with a light smile tugging at his lips. _What is it that you wish for, Spider? What did you say that made Oberyn so delighted? What is your play here?_  
  
Doran sucked in a breath.  _I shall hear him out, at least._ “Go on, then, Lord Varys. Tell me.”  
  
“Ah,” Varys obliged, “Most certainly, good prince.”  
  
Thus it began – a web of carefully spoken silky words, cut often by Oberyn’s witticisms and the spymaster’s own titters. A well-woven tale; that Doran had to grant Varys.  _Why, it’s almost a song in itself_ , Elia would have commented. And almost song-like it was. The hidden prince, thought dead by his kingdom, to be revealed alive and well to take back his kingdoms from those who had usurped them.  _Too good to be true, even._  Doran was reluctant to believe the eunuch.  
  
“Forgive me if I do not trust you, Lord Varys,” he said, when the story was told. Oberyn tried to interrupt.  
  
“Doran –“  
  
“Brother, do think of this with a clear mind. The Elia I know… knew…” he hesitated. “Elia Martell would never condemn her daughter to death while she arranges for her son to be safe. She is not such a woman.”  
  
“It was not Princess Elia’s intention, my prince,” Varys said in an assuring tone. “Prince Aegon – or is it  _His Grace_ , now? The esteemed princess merely… ah,  _prioritised_ her son’s safety at the time. I was to help the Princess Rhaenys and her lady mother escape King’s Landing in the event that the Lannister forces were foe and not friend, but alas…”  
  
The spider shook his head mournfully. “It was not to be,” Doran finished for him, the coldness in his voice still intact.  
  
“It was not to be,” Varys agreed.  
  
The room was quiet for a few moments, the only sound being Oberyn’s paces. Doran moved his gaze to the eunuch, examining him.  _Could it be that this spider is in fact not dishonest? That the babe I buried alongside my sweet sister was simply a tanner’s son bought from the Pisswater Bend for a jug of Arbor Gold wine; that the true Aegon Targaryen – Sixth of His Name, Rightful King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men – yet lives?_  
  
A desperate part of Doran wished for it to be true. His more pragmatic side made a dozen arguments against it.   
  
He glanced at the false envoy.  _A man who trades secrets for a living must not be trusted._  
  
“If it is as you say,” Doran voiced his thoughts, “What have you planned? What do you believe we must do to place Aegon on his rightful throne? What is to be House Martell’s part in it… or yours, for that matter?”  
  
“I am glad you asked, Prince Doran,” Varys replied, cracking a smile. “Very glad, indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming Up Next: The wedding that would shape the war years later.
> 
> Not really sure about this chapter tbh. It has gone through a large amount of changes from start to finish -- the POV had originally been Mellario, Doran's Norvoshi wife, but then I switched to Doran himself. The outline I had in mind was much longer than what I eventually ended up writing. Until the last moment in fact, the entire Varys-Doran conversation about the dragon red or black and plotting to place him on the throne was supposed to be covered; as was Doran officially bending the knee. Ultimately, I thought to end it here on a more ambiguous note (unfortunately it sort of mirrors Aerys' cliffhanger smile at the end of the latest chapter in Uprising, but that can't be helped). In case anyone feels I should conclude this properly before writing the wedding, I'll consider it... 
> 
> A bonus about what might have been after Varys' maneuvering --
>
>> Doran: The babe... may not be who the eunuch claims. You know that, yes?
>> 
>> Oberyn: (mulls over it) Does it truly matter, either way?
> 
> Basically for the Red Viper, this so-called Prince Aegon is a way of getting his vengeance. He'll be all for it in front of Varys, but secretly truly doubt the whole thing. The brothers Martell will slowly attempt to play the spider too, and probably even wish to off him when he's no longer required. That'll be one amusing game of "he knows we know he knows we know..."
> 
> Hopefully I got the Prince of Dorne accurately. On hindsight, perhaps a guardsman would have been a safer POV... eh, perhaps, perhaps not. Anyway, apologies for the long wait, and I hope you like the chapter!


	5. Jonelle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A union.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I realise I haven't been very grateful recently. Here are a few thanks I forgot to give when I last updated:
> 
> Firstly to Matt Quinn, who blogged about this fic. You can find the post at accordingtoquinn.blogspot.com
> 
> Secondly to Dinara, who translated _What the Storm Brings_ into Russian. It can, likewise, be found at ficbook.net/readfic/3243645
> 
> Thirdly, to my beloved readers, who await each chapter so fervently and to the lovely comments I receive each time. Thank you so very much :)

The silver of her maiden’s cloak flapped by with the wind as Jonelle walked towards the heart tree, hand in hand with her lord father. She could feel a hundred eyes on her: northern lords and southron ladies, acclaimed knights and fresh squires. Her kin and her kin-to-be. Their gazes pierced through her, examining and scrutinising, as they held their breath to watch her make a mistake.  _I never wanted this!_  she wished to scream right back at them.  _All I wanted was to be Lady of Cerwyn many winters later; to have a husband of a station lower than mine who would take my name and let me rule. I never wanted to marry your southron lord._  
  
Yet Cley had ruined everything. Jonelle did not  _truly_ begrudge her babe of a brother his own birth, but at that moment it all seemed to lead back to him: she was no longer her father’s heir, had to wed outside the north and it had been her lady aunt, not mother, who had helped dress her for her own wedding.   
  
_Mother_ , she thought desperately,  _I know you prayed to the Seven, but right now, all I long for is for you to bear witness to me speaking the vows from inside the eyes of the heart tree. Show me that you lived on even after passing in the birthing bed. Give me a sign, anything, that you are still here._  
  
Disappointingly, the tree stayed silent.  
  
“Who comes?” came instead. It was the man she would call her lord husband for years yet. “Who comes before the gods?”  
  
It relieved her that Stannis Baratheon had not insisted on a ceremony in the light of the Seven. While Jonelle had been raised with knowledge of both gods, the old and new, she much preferred concise godswood ceremonies to elaborate ones in the sept. Her cousin Wylis had wed before a septon, she remembered, and it had been utterly long-drawn and frivolous. Out of respect for her lady mother’s faith she had stayed quiet then. Had Lord Stannis indicated that he wished for a wedding more like Wylis’, she might have had to stay tight-lipped as well – but that was not to say that she would have liked it one bit.  
  
_It will be short and simple this way_ , Jonelle thought.  _No swearing a hundred different oaths that men, at least, rarely keep._  
  
Her father stirred. He answered Lord Stannis’ stern, rigid tone with his own mildness. “Jonelle of House Cerwyn comes here to be wed,” he said. “A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?”  
  
“Me,” announced the new king’s brother. “Stannis of House Baratheon, Lord Protector of Dragonstone, Heir to the Iron Throne of Westeros. I claim her. Who gives her?”  
  
Jonelle supposed she ought to feel fortunate. “You must cheer up, coz,” Wylis’ wife, Lady Leona, had encouraged her while she had been dressing for the festivities. “’Tis not just  _any_ lord you are to be wedding, after all.”   
  
_Were Robert Baratheon to die without a trueborn son or daughter, I would be queen_ , she knew. Her own feelings towards the matter were not so positive, however. Jonelle was aware of how the world below the Neck was; they were said to put much value on beauty and pageantry and what came with those. She had absolutely none of the first and little patience for the second. King’s Landing, somehow, did not seem to appeal to her.  
  
Nevertheless, the match pleased her lord father greatly. And for that alone, she had agreed to the wedding.  
  
“Medger of House Cerwyn, her father,” he said clearly. Jonelle could swear she had never seen him so proud before; not even when her mother had disclosed being pregnant with Cley. Turning to her, he asked, “Lady Jonelle, will you take this man?”  
  
_Will I?_  Lord Stannis was tall, imposing and sombre above all, with shadows under his blue eyes that spoke of a man haunted by a hundred ghosts. His forehead was creased, as though he were trying his hardest not to scowl, and his teeth were very clearly gritted tight. He was nothing like the maiden’s fantasy his elder brother was promised to be – instead, he was the soldier none would think about until it was far too late in the tale. He had seen twenty-one namedays to Jonelle’s seven and ten, and in spite of it all, she found herself hoping that she might one day find kinship with him.  
  
“I take this man,” she conceded.  
  
Lord Stannis’ grip on her hand was cold. Distant, perhaps. In that, Jonelle did not fault him. Her lord father had informed her on his plight; of being cast aside in favour of a boy of eight because, as rumour said, his royal brother disliked his shielding the last Targaryens. Had said Targaryens been party in their family’s madness, she would certainly have criticised him for it, but with young, innocent children, it was a deed as honourable as any. Southrons, though, seemed to have little regard for honour as well.  
  
It would be another of her responsibilities as the lady wife of the Lord Protector, she remembered. The babe Daenerys Targaryen, she had heard, was now the Lady of Dragonstone in name, and a ward of Stannis Baratheon’s. The girl’s brother was among the guests, to be sent to foster at Winterfell, but she herself would be Jonelle’s duty, aside from the assumed duty of bearing her lord husband’s heir.   
  
_Lord husband_ , Jonelle realised with a start when kneeling on the ground at his side, numb as the leaves of the weirwood they sought blessings from. _I am married now, but I feel just the same as I did hours before. Was I supposed to feel a new woman? Or is that to come later?_  
  
The couple rose after a short period of silence, though Jonelle’s hand was still clutched in Lord Stannis’. He briefly cast his eyes towards her, causing her to wilt. She felt…  _inadequate_ before his penetrating gaze, his unnerving touch and stony demeanour. For a moment she wondered who he might have wed had her uncle not put forth her suit. As she understood, she had been chosen in the first place merely as she was grown, flowered, from a loyal house and sufficiently highborn. Her beauty, rather lack thereof, had not been a factor in it. Whoever else might have been chosen would certainly not have been as homely as her, yet she hoped and hoped that her appearance would not dent their marriage. It was a difficult thing to wish for, yet she wished nonetheless.  
  
As members of the nobility she barely knew crowded around her and wished her their best, all Jonelle longed for was to be back at Castle Cerwyn, surrounded by people she had known all her life. When her father had tried to plan the ceremony there, he had realised how there simply was not enough space for the lords and ladies that would have to be invited, it being the king’s brother’s wedding as well. Her mother’s lord brother, who had already helped broker the match, had been ever prepared to offer up White Harbor as the venue instead, and suddenly with how it was a more accessible place, the guest list had exploded. And it seemed that the more people decided to come, the more wanted to. She could not fault any of her family that. Still, it grated her that instead of the small, intimate wedding feast she had always envisioned having, she had to sit through a display of lavishness.  
  
It was only later, when the serving girls appeared with the first course, that Jonelle recognised how her lord husband felt the same as herself.  
  
Lord Stannis ground his teeth, eyeing the festivities with disdain. “I do not understand why you deigned to turn my wedding into such a  _spectacle_ , Lord Manderly.”  
  
“Need I remind you, Lord Baratheon, that it is our beloved cousin’s wedding as well?” Her uncle Wyman’s younger son, Wendel, responded gruffly. He was closest to Jonelle in age, and as a young boy had been her favoured champion.   
  
“Peace, Wendel,” Lord Wyman chastised. To Lord Stannis, he said, “My lord, you must forgive me for not knowing your tastes, for us Manderlys are fond of feasts above most other things. Besides, it was not as though it was the king’s brother my niece was marrying.”  
  
Lord Stannis snorted, despite looking somewhat affronted. Jonelle saw him turn his attention to his other side, where the youngest Baratheon brother was engaged in lively mummery with another boy his age.  
  
“Beware the black dragon! Beware the black dragon! Bloodraven must die!” proclaimed young Lord Renly.   
  
No-more-a-prince Viserys Targaryen shook his head. “No, no, you have it all wrong! It was Bittersteel who was with the black dragons, not Bloodraven! Tell him, Cousin Stannis!”  
  
The young Lord of Storm’s End, however, was insulted. “No,  _you_ have it wrong! I am right, aren’t I?  _Aren’t I_ , Stannis?”  
  
Jonelle’s lord husband acquired his scowl once more. “Viserys is right,” he said shortly, and looked away immediately. Renly scowled at that too, and punched Stannis’ arm with as much force an eight nameday old could muster. When Lord Stannis did not budge at that, his brother redirected his anger towards his playmate-turned-rival, and punched him instead. Not to take blows to him lightly, Viserys Targaryen punched right back.  
  
“I am the Young Dragon!” Renly screamed.   
  
Viserys growled. “I am Baelor Breakspear!”  
  
Somehow, minutes later, the two of them had turned back to their regular mummery, and the punches had subsided. Lord Stannis was as unfeeling of the two of them as ever, rendering Jonelle into a frown.  _His own brother, and he is so uncaring about him. So detached, so cold…_  
  
“You disapprove of me, my lady.”  
  
Startled, Jonelle turned to where her husband was observing her, his deep blue eyes boring into her being. She hesitated. “It is not so, my lord, I –”  
  
Lord Stannis ground his teeth. “I can appreciate you having your own opinion, my lady, but I cannot appreciate you lying about it. Speak up, if you will. You shall find that I have no head for pretensions.”  
  
In that moment, she felt smaller than she had ever before. “I merely wondered why you feel so strongly against a children’s game the young lords are indulging in, my lord.”  
  
Jonelle had tried her best to sound strong, but she could tell she had failed. Lord Stannis grimaced.  
  
“Mummery will never do them any good,” he stated. “Pretending to be another person bigger than oneself, being ignorant of reality – neither will do them any good, and one day they shall learn that, to their peril. That day better be earlier rather than later, my lady. Today, rather than tomorrow.”  
  
A frozen shiver went through Jonelle at those words. The way Lord Stannis spoke…  _Is it something you have been through, too? Is that why you are... like this?_  
  
She was saved from a reply by the arrival of a man with dark hair and dark eyes, dressed in the grey of his house. Eddard Stark, who Jonelle had known as a very young girl before he had left for the Vale, was near her lord husband’s age, with a long face, a close-cropped beard and a solemn appearance. Though he was renowned as a great friend of the new king – who might have been his good-brother in another life – there did not seem to be much familiarity between him and Lord Stannis.  
  
“My lord, my lady,” he greeted, with a kiss at the back of Jonelle’s hand and a short bow to her husband. When he had congratulated them on the union and expressed regrets about his lady wife not being able to come, he said, “I must admit my surprise that His Grace was not able to come.”  
  
She had to admit, it  _had_ been a surprise. Her uncle Wyman had hoped for King Robert to arrive with his brother, no doubt to further White Harbor ambitions at the new court, but from King’s Landing they had only received an apology letter writ by the Lord Hand, Jon Arryn.  
  
Lord Stannis’ explanation, though, was much more straightforward than Lord Arryn’s flimsy excuses. “Our  _honourable_ king clearly deemed a hunt in the Kingswood more important than his brother’s wedding, Lord Stark. Your surprise is irrelevant.”  
  
_You just cannot be polite, can you, my lord?_  Eddard Stark shifted, clearly uncomfortable at the turn the conversation had taken. “Certainly the king did not intend it as a… a slight, Lord Stannis.”  
  
Jonelle’s husband snorted. “Oh, certainly,” he agreed sarcastically. “Nonetheless, I mean to speak to you on the morrow, Lord Stark. If young Viserys is to find a home with you, he must be introduced to his foster father, as is only proper.”  
  
“Of course,” Lord Eddard agreed, more lightly, and bid them farewell. Jonelle looked on as he was encountered by one of her lady mother’s distant Grafton cousins and a short, weedy man who had the beginnings of a beard at his chin. She could see that there was visible souring on the Stark lord’s part on identifying the men, but before she could find out why it was so, there was a sudden outburst at another of the tables.  
  
“Ungrateful wretch!” a woman screeched. From the distance, Jonelle could make out that she was wearing the two blue towers of House Frey. Upon realising that she had been a tad too loud, the woman lowered her voice but did not cease confronting the man that sat with her, who wore the same sigil and had a weasel’s look about him. The serving girl he had been fondling rushed away from the couple.  
  
Jonelle shuddered. Incidents such as this were the very reason she did not like large feasts. Nobility and copious amounts of wine did not make for good reason.  
  
“Edwyn Frey,” muttered her aunt-by-marriage, Lady Areane Manderly. She was the very opposite of her husband: thin and sharp where he was portly and jovial. “And his lady wife. A Florent of the Reach, I believe.”  
  
Lord Wyman chuckled. “A Florent and a Frey,” he said, “A fitting match, I daresay.”  
  
That Manderlys disliked Reachmen was not a well-hidden secret by any means. Wendel and Wylis, Jonelle’s cousins, were just as amused as their father. What was surprising was her husband’s take on it.  
  
“A Tyrell might have fit the bill better,” he said casually. “Or perhaps a Redwyne. The Florents are fools, but they are not the worst of the lot.”  
  
Silence. Jonelle supposed none had expected Lord Stannis to participate in such a conversation. Then, she remembered, he had held a castle under siege by Tyrells and Redwynes for a year. There had to be resentment there, when it was barely a year and a half since the Reach had bent the knee.  
  
Her uncle recovered first, booming with laughter. “If only there were still Gardeners alive,” he spoke. “No punishment would be greater than to be married to a Gardener, surely!”  
  
The feast went on after that, with the bare minimum participation from either Jonelle or Lord Stannis. Guests arrived regularly to part with gifts or merely give their blessings, and of those only an assortment were worth remembering, the rest of them fading together as the evening melted into nighttime.   
  
Two branches of House Frey ultimately introduced themselves to herself and her new husband: Edwyn Frey with his lady wife, the disdainful Lady Selyse, came first, followed by the half-Lannister Ser Cleos with his, Jeyne Darry. Lady Jeyne’s uncle, Lord Raymun of Darry, spent more time trying to make conversation with Viserys Targaryen than actually wishing the marriage well, which did not slip Lord Stannis’ notice. As Jonelle slowly came to know, little ever did.  
  
“Lord Raymun, if I did not know better, I would almost say that you had travelled to White Harbor merely to lay your eyes on young Viserys,” he accused, after several minutes of grinding his teeth and watching the last dragon’s apprehensions of Lord Darry. “And all that despite the fact that the very loyal Ser Willem regularly tells you of his well-being, as well as that of Lady Daenerys.” The lord glared bitterly at that, but stormed out of their sight despite it. Jonelle soon decided that she did not ever want to be on the receiving side of her lord husband’s barbs.  
  
For a while it seemed he had been genuinely cordial with only the Estermonts that had arrived for the wedding. Ser Lomas, who was her lord’s uncle on his mother’s side, and Lord Eldon, his grandfather, were both soft-spoken and friendly, reminding her of her own father. Once Lord Morrigen had greeted them, however, Jonelle determined one thing: her husband was never deliberately impolite. He treated everyone as he saw fit: he had treated Raymun Darry as an excessively zealous rebel, his kin as his kin, Lord Stark as a great lord and his brother’s friend, and nothing more. Likewise he spoke to Lester Morrigen as one would a loyal, respectable man; handsome Ser Ryam Massey and his young son, Justin, as one would a rebel who had accepted one’s rule wholeheartedly.  
  
Jonelle herself only felt familiar when the northern lords arrived. Her father had been entertaining them, a prouder host than many, and certainly a good one. Even Lord Karstark, disagreeable though he was, refrained from spoiling the feast by spouting a string of curses towards Lord Stannis as he had grumbled the night of his arrival at White Harbor. “The man has the mind of a traitor, Medger,” he had announced firmly to her father. Lady Areane, her aunt, had urgently removed Jonelle from the table to prevent her from listening to it in more detail, but she had found out anyway, on prodding noble Ser Kyle Condon in her little cousin Wynafryd’s nursery. He had even told her of obnoxious Barbrey Dustin, the Lady Dowager of Barrowton, and thus when she approached the high tables arm in arm with her father, Jonelle was prepared.  
  
“The lady and I have been friends for long, my lord of Baratheon,” Barbrey said, feigning graciousness. “I was most astonished to see that she was to wed a southron lord, but in your presence, I can see that she shall not lack for the north.”  
  
_At least I shall have a husband, which is more than you do right now_ , Jonelle wished to say, spurred on by memories of a young, hopeful girl in the colours of House Cerwyn thinking herself in love with the handsome heir of the liege. Barbrey had worn the horse of the Ryswells as her sigil then, but she had been no less rude. “You’re too ugly for him,” she had sniggered, so full of herself until Brandon’s betrothal to Lady Catelyn had been announced. At ten namedays, Jonelle had lived a sheltered life as Lord Medger’s only heir, and never had anyone called her ugly. Until then.  
  
_I despise you, Barbrey_ , Jonelle thought.  _And I have kept it in for so long. But I will not let you spoil my wedding by insulting my lord husband._  
  
“My lady, I see you wear the colours of House Dustin,” Jonelle cut in coolly before Lord Stannis could speak. “It is a pity they are not grey and white, no?”  
  
She had never been on the receiving end of such a poisonous glare, but Jonelle could not bring herself to care.  _You shattered the silly dreams I once had, and I am thankful for that, Barbrey. But for the girl I once was, and the amount of hurt you caused her, you deserved that._  
  
Lady Barbrey’s elder sister, Bethany Ryswell Bolton, was a much more decent woman; submissive, even, some would say.  _Marriage to Roose Bolton, though_ , reasoned Jonelle,  _would have made even half-wild Lyanna Stark submissive_. The Lord and Lady of the Dreadfort were accompanied by their young son, sweet Domeric, who Jonelle was relieved to find looked to have inherited more of his mother’s personality than his father’s. Lord Bolton, in her opinion, was one lord the north could surely do without. Even loud, boisterous Jon Umber, called the Greatjon, was much more to her taste.  
  
By the time Lady Areane announced that the children had to be taken to their rooms, Lord Renly and Viserys Targaryen had acquired more playmates: the Greatjon’s son, Smalljon, and the slightly older Donnel Locke. When Lady Umber escorted Smalljon away and Donnel’s sister left with him, Viserys accepted the end of his night with grace, while Renly protested, hoping Lord Stannis would interfere on his behalf.  
  
“No, Renly,” his brother growled instead, turning away from his conversation with a plain-faced man who had introduced himself as a Ser Davos. Lord Stannis ground his teeth loudly. “It is already past your bedtime. Ser Rolland will escort you to your chambers. It does not do for the Lord of the Stormlands to kick up such a fuss.”  
  
Renly glared at him darkly, being dragged out of the hall by a scarred knight. Jonelle watched, along with a good number of nobles gathered, as her husband glared right back at the boy.  _Is this what awaits me?_  she wondered. Her opinion of Stannis Baratheon seemed to swing back and forth by the minute: for a heartbeat he would feel almost Roose Bolton-like, and then for another fleeting minute she would think,  _oh, he does not seem so bad after all._    
  
Jonelle’s eyes searched for her mother in the masses.  _Mother, please, come back. I need you to tell me what to do. I need you here for me if I wake up with my body aching, despising the man I have wed._  
  
She found her father instead, deeply engrossed in talk with Lady Lynessa Flint.  _I did this for you, Father. I only wanted you to see me as a worthy daughter, if not a worthy heir._    
  
And for the second time during the feast, her lord husband startled her. In barely more than a whisper, his face contorted into annoyance, he said, “You need not be frightened, my lady.”  
  
When the Greatjon called for the bedding and her cousin Wendel arrived to deliver her to the chambers without letting others touch her, she heard another voice in her head.  _Are you ready?_  it asked, sounding more like the Jonelle Cerwyn that had left her home than the Jonelle Cerwyn that had wed a man she had never once met before.   
  
_Am I?_  This time her gaze flew to Lord Stannis, being stripped off his upper garments by a Grafton maiden, and that was when she knew. Whatever else, she had to do her duty.  _I am ready_ , she thought.  _Honed and ready._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Honed and Ready" are, by the way, the words of House Cerwyn.
> 
> So, Jonelle I reckoned would have been raised as her father's heir until Cley's birth in 284 AC, and it might have been drilled into her head that she would eventually marry a son of a bannerman and be Lady of Cerwyn after her father's death. It also isn't unreasonable to assume that she knew Brandon as a young girl, considering Castle Cerwyn is only half a day away from Winterfell. 
> 
> Her thoughts about her new husband are kind of muddled up, I'd say. Meanwhile Stannis is Stannis and Renly is Renly. Still would like feedback about characters.
> 
> After this, I'm going to pause for a bit, focus on finishing two or three chapters of _Uprising_ before coming back to this. Potentially the next part will be Daenerys I, but if people would prefer worldbuilding chapters for a bit, exploring the smaller butterflies of this 'verse (such as the Edwyn-Selyse match), I'd totally consider it.
> 
> Would love to know what you guys thought of this. Cheers, and thank you for reading, once again :)


	6. Robert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reflection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: references to sex, plus your regular ASOIAF vocabulary
> 
> Yes, this came as a surprise to me as well. I've been terribly, terribly busy but I felt the urge to write something on Monday and finished this today. It forced me to rethink about where this is going -- I have planned the entirety of AU AGoT and most of AU ACoK, however, as of now, I shall be having two more prelude chapters after this one -- a Winterfell PoV circa 293 and then most probably a Wall PoV circa 297.
> 
> After that, I will be uploading a sequel starting with the chapter Daenerys I, already half-written.
> 
> Apologies if this isn't my best work; it's just a world-building chapter that can be edited per whatever suggestions I get. However, I do hope you like it :)

It had been six years now, and yet he could see her in his mind’s eye like it was only yesterday he had last seen her. A pale miracle, truth be told, haunting him with her grey gaze and drawing him inside her. Her image, however, was a faint one: fading everyday that he saw it, as though Lyanna was walking away from him, unwilling, disapproving…  
  
_No, she loved me_ , Robert thought to himself.  _Had it not been for that whoreson Rhaegar, we would have been happy together. Content. I would never have to wear this damned crown and look over my shoulder every hour for a hidden assassin._  
  
But thoughts of his once-betrothed, his bride from another life, always brought to fore Robert’s anger and irritation, and there was only one way to numb those. There was only one way to feel a semblance of normality again.  
  
“ _Wine_!” he bellowed. His chambers were hazy around him, only the horn clutched in his palm registering at all, but he knew his squires would be lingering somewhere. And his Kingsguard would surely be around too. In a few moments he would find more wine filled in his horn. That was all he longed for.  
  
Robert grunted.  _Perhaps not_ all _I long for_ , he considered.  _I long for a warhammer in my hand again, even so soon after a rebellion. I long to suffocate Viserys Targaryen to death. I long for his pathetic sister to die alone on Dragonstone. I long for my blood brother to be who he had once been, and for my chosen brother to be at my side. I long to be back on the Trident and kill Rhaegar a thousand times over. I long for Lyanna in my arms again._  
  
He saw a blur of white and vaguely recognised the newly inducted Kingsguard. “You! Ser Balon, isn’t it? Tell Lord Errol that I shall have the whores in now.”  
  
Quite honestly, they helped him forget, the whores did. For a few hours, he would be young Lord Robert Baratheon once more, groping their arses and admiring their bosoms. He would fuck them hard, and their moaning and squirming would please him like nothing else could or would except for the rush of the battlefield. But after a while, he would imagine Lyanna dissolving into nothingness and awaken again to the reality of his life.  
  
It was a miserable, lonely cycle.  
  
Often it would be that his shrew of a wife would arrive in his chambers and yell commands at him, disregarding who was the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and who the consort. She was the one woman he could not stand: Cersei Lannister was egotistical, obnoxious, overly proud, and most of all, she was everything Lyanna was not. He had fucked her many a time over their years of marriage; she had borne him an heir and a daughter as well, and yet even in his mind it was infinitely difficult for him to think of her as a Baratheon. She was a lion in every way; someone Robert could not believe he had married.  _For fuck’s sake, even our children look like lions!_  
  
Joffrey was… truthfully, Robert did not know his own heir too well. A part of him did not even desire to. Myrcella, his very recently born daughter, was just as unknown to him. Cersei kept them close to herself and away from him, treating him like plague even though it was truly her who would happen to poison the children, if so, and not him. What a ruin his marriage was: a witch for a wife, and strangers for offsprings.  
  
A servant filled his horn for him with strong Dornish red. Taking a deep swig, Robert suddenly thought of his blood brother.  _Stannis likely has a better marriage than my own_ , he realised, the idea of it putting a sour taste in his mouth. While his ungrateful brother was a dour, unpleasant man, the loyal Northwoman he had been wed to was no lively woman either. The handful of times he had seen them together, they had not looked to be at loggerheads at all. They had two children as well, if Robert could recall correctly -- a homely boy with a name similar to Eddard, much to his dismay, and a babe of a girl called Shireen.   
  
Of course, they also had the dragonspawn girl with them. Robert did not like her name at all, and refrained from ever thinking it.  _She is still the Lady of Dragonstone, however you think of her_ , a voice in his head whispered, but he shunned it by gulping more wine. _Damn you, Stannis!_  
  
He had thought it ample, but in his heart of hearts, he did not really want him dead, however. The man had a stick up his arse and Robert would never forgive him for not getting rid of the dragonspawn, but he knew that there was a chance that without Stannis, Westeros would be in ruins. As much as he hated to admit it… his brother had been the one to make the victory over the Greyjoys possible.  
  
Robert blinked. It seemed only a few days ago that he had stormed Pyke, and yet it seemed like a faraway dream at times. The eunuch Varys had alerted them of rebellion brewing before it had begun, but in some parts it had caught them unawares -- Tywin Lannister’s ships had still burnt to crumbs and numerous keeps along the coast had still been sacked to the ground. Paxter Redwyne, his Master of Ships, had called all the navies of the Seven Kingdoms to take to the waters and he had led this grand coalition himself, but he had not been able to survive Iron Captain Victarion Greyjoy’s fleet, and only the bare minimum of the loyal ships had been able to escape.   
  
He remembered it clear as day: the news of the defeat at Fair Isle, the lack of communication with whoever had fled the battle… Anarchy had reigned in his camps. Even Ned’s cool temperament had not been able to assuage his temper. He had fucked a fair yellow-haired lass that day, and many in the days following, but he had not felt any amount of relief until Ser Allyn Snow of White Harbour had arrived with a small group of survivors.  
  
“We shall win this time,” the Manderly bastard had declared confidently. “Lord Stannis lives. He rallied the White Harbour and Crownlands fleets after the Ironborn drowned Lord Redwyne’s ship. There is much hope left.”  
  
Robert had wondered day and night then if Stannis would disappoint him again. His good-father as well as Mace Tyrell had been sure that he would. The Battle off the Banefort had been a success, however, and their armies had crossed over to the Iron Islands without more nuisance, Victarion Greyjoy having already died aboard his godsforsaken longship. After that, the rebellion had been a consistent progression: Great Wyk won by Ser Barristan, Old Wyk by Ned, and Pyke by Robert himself. Balon Greyjoy executed in his own keep, and his crippled son Lord of the Iron Islands.  
  
There was a giggle at the door, diverting Robert from his thoughts.  _The women must be here…_  His mouth faintly stretched into a smile at the thought of the whores his Master of Coin had surely sent, until there was a louder creaking sound and the door shut loud, rendering his chambers into complete silence. His features twisted into a scowl as turned to the door in his drunken stupor.  
  
It was a thin, greying man who walked towards him, holding himself especially strong for a man of his age. There was a soft look on his face, though, and Robert contained his groan within himself. His whores would have to wait a few more minutes now that Jon was here. Whatever the matter was would be done with shortly -- that was what was best about having his foster father as his Hand. Jon knew that Robert had no patience for governance, and ensured that whatever task had to be finished involved him as little as possible.  
  
“Robert,” Jon greeted, bowing. He was waved off as Robert took another swig of wine.  
  
“What is it?” he asked impatiently. “Important, I take it, if you sent the lasses away.”  
  
Jon did not display his discomfort on his face but Robert could tell it was there. “I… Yes, Your Grace, it is important.”  
  
The use of 'Your Grace' did not escape him.  
  
“Tell me,” he urged, setting his horn down.  _This better not be about that little shit in Winterfell…_  
  
It was not, as it turned out, about the Targaryen being fostered with Ned. It was about other rebellious scum, however.  
  
“Theon Greyjoy,” announced Jon.  
  
Robert frowned. “The new Lord of the Iron Islands?” He had himself disarmed and crippled the green youth in combat on Pyke, and then established him as its new Lord. “What about him?”  
  
Sighing, the Lord of the Eyrie shook his head. “Theon is the boy we took on as a ward. His brother Maron is the Lord now. No, I wanted to know if you had thought about where young Theon ought to be fostered.”  
  
Robert remembered more starkly now. It was Maron who had been forced to swear fealty to him along with his surviving demented uncle, and Theon had been the boy he had brought back to King’s Landing as a hostage, much to the despair of the weeping mother. He’d had half a mind to send the boy to Winterfell with Ned, but the idea of him conspiring with whoreson Rhaegar’s brother had been too dark to bear. Tywin Lannister had wanted the Greyjoy as well, as had Mace Tyrell and half a dozen other Westerosi lords. He truthfully failed to understand why they did, especially as Theon was likely to be far down the line of inheritance once Maron flushed his seed into the belly of his new wife.  
  
“No,” he answered. “I did not think about it.”  
  
Jon nodded. “The Queen wishes for him to be sent to Casterly Rock. Perhaps that will have to be done, then, as I daresay Lord Tywin will not be pleased to know Theon has been sent to Highgarden or Riverrun.”  
  
Yet Robert could not in any way bear giving Cersei what she wanted. “Don’t,” he commanded his Hand. “Don’t send him to the lion’s den. Heavens know what might happen to the boy there. Take him to the Eyrie if you must.”  
  
Robert picked up his horn once more, thinking the conversation over, but Jon had more to say.  
  
“It shall be done,” he agreed, but did not stop there. “Your Grace… There is one more matter. Young Lord Horas Redwyne shall be arriving here soon to swear you fealty, and with him Lord Tyrell’s youngest boy rides as well. Lord Tyrell wishes for him to page and squire for you.”  
  
“I have two squires already,” Robert grunted. They were both sons of nobility that had served him will in the Greyjoy Rebellion. A Morrigen and a Fossoway. He had yet to memorise their given names, however.  
  
“Perhaps they could be assigned to someone else,” Jon suggested, but he would not have it.  
  
“No, they shall stay with me until I can knight them,” Robert said. It seemed dishonorable to send the squires to another lord when he had promised their fathers that they would serve him alone. Ned would certainly disapprove of it. Instead, a thought occurred to him. “Give the boy to Renly. He’ll be marrying the Tyrell girl anyway; it will not do him any harm.”  
  
“Renly is not--”  
  
“No, he isn’t a knight yet,” Robert affirmed. “But he will be, soon enough. Besides, he is a lord of his own keep, and there are few things better for the Tyrell boy than a page at Storm’s End.”  
  
“Very well,” his foster father said. Then, with more hesitation, he asked, “What about Master of Ships?”  
  
This time, Robert did not need to know more detail. “Absolutely not,” he announced, fully aware of what Jon intended to ask him.  
  
“Robert, think it through,” the Hand prompted. “Your brother--”  
  
“ _No_ , Jon.” Robert shook his head.  _No. I cannot. I will not._  
  
“He is capable, and he has proved himself. He saved your kingdom from splintering into two. Why not let everything in the past merely be water under the bridge? Forgiving--”  
  
_Oh, why can’t you understand, Jon? It is not so easy. One good deed cannot wash out his past mistakes. I may be grateful he won at Banefort in my name, but I cannot forget he disobeyed me so crudely before. It is not possible._  
  
“No,” Robert said aloud, banging his horn on the table before him. “And that is my final answer. Get my uncle Ser Lomas, perhaps. Not Stannis. And don’t ask me again, Jon, or I don’t know what I might say.”  
  
_Rhaegar stole her away, and Aerys took away her family. Rhaella stood by and did nothing. Together they ensured the Seven Kingdoms bled to near-death, until Ned, Jon and I saved them from it. Lyanna never breathed again, succumbing to whatever cruelties that whoreson did to her, and Stannis wants his brother and sister to live! He starved for near a year because of that one family’s sins. How can he still want the dragonspawn to breathe? How can he bear to see the girl’s face everyday and not wish to strangle her?_  
  
A small part of Robert had desired, once, for Stannis to go back on his godsforsaken promise to that whore Rhaella and choke the babe to death along with the boy Viserys. But Stannis had been just as stubborn and resilient as ever.  _He doesn’t even deserve Lord Protectorship of Dragonstone_ , Robert thought.  _Ungrateful bastard. He shall be homeless in a few years, once the bitch flowers and can rule on her own. He’ll have nowhere to go. Only me to come running to._  
  
He could remember his mother telling him, a young boy then, to not judge every act of his brother’s and always stay by his side. "Don't mock him so," she would scold him. "He is your blood. You must help him, not insult him."  _I’m sorry, Mother, but I can’t. We are far too unlike for that._  
  
It was only a few minutes after Jon left that the new Kingsguard standing by the door let the gaggle of scantily dressed whores in. Taking in the site of their creamy bodies, Robert felt all his unpleasant thoughts fade away, and once they had reached him and touched him in all the right places, he felt the rest of himself fade away as well, until there were only moans and whimpers in the background left.   
  
_I was wrong_ , he said to himself as he winked at the dark-haired girl playing with his member.  _I don't need anything else... Only this._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realise my interpretation of Robert is a bit unconventional, but whatever I write, I try to make my PoV as sympathetic as possible. So there you have it.
> 
> Some prominent changes from original timeline:  
> \- Ser Balon Swann becoming Kingsguard early on, since Arys Oakheart ITTL has married Delena Florent (she never slept with Robert here, thus she was very much a ripe marriage prospect)  
> \- Renly is marrying Margaery in the future. Their betrothal was offered so as to bring the Reach in the fold (similar to the Stannis/Selyse marriage in the books)  
> \- Stannis' kids so far are Edric (not Eddard, I assure you) and Shireen  
> \- The Greyjoy Rebellion obviously went really differently, as elaborated in the chapter  
> \- Theon's being fostered at the Eyrie.
> 
> A few words: I received criticism on the previous chapter about marrying Stannis to Jonelle. On the surface, I agree, it seems a useless union, but there's a real motive here. Fact is, by saving Dany and Viserys, Stannis had openly opposed Robert. Robert himself grew in paranoia about Stannis deserting him. Thus, by marrying Stannis to a Baratheon-loyal family, a lot of fears were assuaged and it was ensured that he wasn't given a power base of his own in any way. Yes, Jonelle is ugly, but she is a Cerwyn (frightfully close to Winterfell, Robert's loyal base) with ties to White Harbour (fiercely loyal to the Starks). So the marriage really works.


	7. Luwin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A departure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I surprised myself, not only by the relative quickness of this update, but also by the PoV. Unfortunately, the Catelyn chapter was aborted before its conception, giving way to this: a depiction of the boy Viserys Targaryen has become, and the effect it has had on the denizens of Winterfell. Suggestions welcome; I know the ending is rather abrupt but I had no idea how to wrap up and eventually had to settle here. Enjoy.

The boy was standing by the window, looking out into the night. His silhouette was still in the light of the lamp he had set on the table, his silver hair shining almost incandescently. Luwin had been silent as a lamb, and yet, the boy could tell his arrival without batting an eyelid.  
  
“I thought I would be alone here.”  
  
_But he is not a boy anymore, is he?_  Indeed, Viserys Targaryen was not the shy, mellow child of seven Lord Eddard had brought from White Harbour so many years ago. He was a man now; full of questions and burden, yes, but a man grown, about to leave his shelter for the first time.  
  
“Did you want to be?” Luwin asked gently, posing his words as thought rather than a rhetoric. His years of teaching young Viserys had shown him that the boy -- no, man -- always preferred to have a choice. He despised it when someone, anyone, assumed a response before he had given one.   
  
This time Viserys swivelled his head sharply to lock eyes with him. His nostrils flared. It did not make for a pleasant expression.  
  
“Of  _course_ I did, Maester. There is a reason I came here.”  
  
Luwin did not wither away from his gaze.  _He must know by now that I can tell his lies from his truths_ , he thought to himself. The lamp flickered.  
  
“I apologise, my lord,” he bowed to the not-quite-lord. Though Viserys’ eyes wandered to the door, the Maester did not make a move to leave. “I should not have assumed.”  
  
“No,” the boy snapped. “You should not have.”  
  
He went back to his place by the window after that. Luwin waited patiently. The musings would come, as they always did.  
  
It took a bare few minutes for the annoyance in Viserys to pass, and as predicted, soon his eyes faltered. He shut them tight and took a deep breath.  _Take the anger out, child._  Luwin had said it to him six years ago, when he had ripped a book about the Conciliator’s northern policies apart. _Take the anger out. Letting it fester will only cause a wound._  
  
“What if I  _want_  it to fester?” The question had perturbed the Maester. The boy had been only ten, questioning everything around him. Lady Catelyn had tired of the boy’s angst, while Lord Eddard had not known what to do with it. It had been Luwin who had had to help him through it.  
  
“You don’t truly want it to fester, my boy,” Luwin had responded. “You only wish to know how it might feel for it to. That is all well and good, but often it so happens that our wishes are the things of our nightmares and our desires a thing of evil.”  
  
A tale from the days of the Storm Kings had been read then, where the foolish king Errec Durrandon had wished for a wall to border his capital, but then the very same wall had been his downfall in war years later.   
  
Now, at six and ten, the boy stood and stared and thought a long while about events out of his control. No story of a Storm King could divert him. It was terrifying, almost, how single-minded the boy often became. It reminded Luwin of a group of acolytes that had studied with him at the Citadel. Last he had heard, most of them had died early deaths or would be on their deathbed soon.  
  
_Damn the Seven if you turn out like them, boy._  
  
As a man of the Citadel, his task was to counsel, to teach, to heal. But to Viserys he had somehow done more than that. The boy had been a nervous arrival at Winterfell, handed over from one lord to another, both of them quiet and stringent men. Lord Eddard had been kind and gracious, to be certain, but after all, Viserys was his ward -- not a foster son and certainly not of his own blood. Perhaps the boy’s kinship to the Silver Prince Rhaegar had also meant that Ned Stark did not know quite how to act around him. Lady Catelyn had been just as distant, almost as much as she was to her lord husband’s bastard son Jon. In some ways, Viserys had only had the library, the Maester’s turret and Luwin himself.  
  
_Strange are the ways of the world_ , he thought.  _In another life, this boy might have been a royal in true with the Red Keep as his home. In this life, however…_  
  
“Daenerys wrote to me.”  
  
Luwin was brought out of his thoughts by the boy’s own voice, this time softer and calmer.   
  
“Surely she desired to wish you luck, as you start a new phase in your life.” The last phase, perhaps -- Viserys would soon be a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch, manning the last real frontier of Westeros, and that would be it. It was similar to Luwin’s own order in the way that young Viserys would never speak marriage vows, father children or hold lands of any sort. Mayhap he would rise to become a Lord Commander, but that would be the highest he would rise.  
  
His purple eyes glazed, the boy gave a light snort. He lifted his hand and opened his right palm, and it was only then that a crumpled piece of parchment was revealed to Luwin. It turned out to be a letter that Viserys carefully unfolded and then read from.  
  
“ _‘Brother, I do so hope you achieve great heights in your endeavour at the Night’s Watch.’_  I do not jest, Maester, this what my nine nameday old sister writes to me.” Viserys crumpled the letter once more and shook his head. “Doubtless my  _beloved_  Cousin Stannis sat by her as she drafted this. This is precisely how I remember him speak.”  
  
Luwin sighed. “The Lord Baratheon is Lady Daenerys’ foster father. She must have asked him for help, or his lady wife, for that matter.”  
  
“Foster father, aye,” the Targaryen agreed. “But if I recall correctly, it is learned men with chains like yours who ought to help write letters. Cousin Stannis is no Maester, unless he went to the Citadel without the rest of Westeros knowing.  
  
“No, he had no business meddling in Daenerys’ communication with me.” A vague smile came upon Viserys. “Now that I think about it, perhaps the man ought to have done the Seven Kingdoms a favour and sworn himself in as a Maester. Much would have been different.”  
  
_Different, indeed. A good different, however, or the bad sort?_  
  
“Lord Baratheon saved your life.”  
  
“So they say.” The boy faintly tapped his feet. “The question is,  _why_? Why did he do it? What made him abandon his orders and be merciful?”  
  
“Honour,” Luwin answered effortlessly, as he had done in the times before that Viserys had wondered about it. “Lord Baratheon did not wish to stain his hands with innocents’ blood. It was the correct thing to do, dutiful or not.”  
  
Unlike the previous times they had had the conversation, however, this time Viserys seemed ready to debate facts. He turned to face Luwin, pure incredulity on his face, and abruptly stopped tapping his feet.  
  
“Do you honestly believe that?” he asked, stepping closer. “Do you honestly believe any man would do something so selfless?”  
  
“Lord Stark would.”  
  
“Lord Stark is… different.”  
  
Luwin did not respond. Viserys was, after all, of that age when he believed all his own hypotheses correct, and any attempt to disagree would be promptly shut down. The better alternative was to let the boy grow and learn himself to differentiate right from wrong. Eventually, he would know himself that to villainise the man who had protected him and his young sister from certain death was naught but senseless.  
  
“It does not matter now, I suppose,” Viserys decided, his eyes still lingering on Luwin. “I shall never meet him again, or my sister either.”  
  
There was a sour edge to his voice. Hesitating, Luwin said, “Not necessarily. The Watch might just make you a wandering crow, furthering its goals to all the keeps of the Seven Kingdoms. Among them Dragonstone.”  
  
A harsh laugh escaped Viserys in response, though, as he resumed his tapping. “And risk His Grace’s ire? No, I do not think so, Maester. I shall leave for Castle Black now and die there. This is how it was always supposed to be.”  
  
In the dark, it was not easy to see whether the boy looked bitter or upset. A bit of both, Luwin suspected.  
  
“Do you blame King Robert?”  
  
Viserys furrowed his brow,confused. “King Robert? No, he only did what he had to.” His eyes bore a faraway look as he said, “Not him.”  
  
“Lord Stannis Baratheon did what he thought was right.”  
  
“Certainly, Maester. Certainly.” the boy nodded. “He could have done better, however. Made me Lord of Dragonstone in Dany’s place, for one. I am the elder of us, and the male beside. It was my right.”  
  
He walked away from Luwin again, back to where he had originally been by the window. “Yet it is not he I blame for this, entirely.”  
  
It did not take long for it to dawn the Maester.  _Why did I not think of it sooner?_  
  
“Your brother.” A prompt, not a guess.  
  
Vaguely, Viserys nodded. “Him. My father. My mother, even, in some ways, for not showing me the man he was before it was too late. If only I could have done something…  _Anything_ …”  
  
“I daresay nothing could have changed them.”  
  
“Do you think I don’t  _know_  that?”  
  
_Oh, my boy, if you do, why do you think of it so much?_  
  
They stood in the quiet for a while; a man once a poor novice in the Reach, and another, a boy born a prince. A man now a chained Maester and another soon to be a man of the Watch. And perhaps…  
  
“Have you had the chance to consider what I suggested?” Luwin asked.  
  
“Not yet. There are… people I wish to meet, once at the Wall. Perhaps then I might…”  
  
_People to meet. Ah._  Luwin ought to have expected that. Aemon Targaryen, the brother of King Aegon the Fortunate, was still a Maester at Castle Black, and Ser Jon Connington, Viserys’ departed brother’s closest companion, was a Master-at-Arms there. It was often joked that the Wall was merely an institution for dragonsworn and dragonblooded exiles, what with Crownlander knights sent there, and now even Viserys, a Targaryen himself, to join his ancestor.  
  
“Of course.”  
  
He would chose the Citadel in the end. Years of watching Viserys grow had given Luwin insight into the boy’s personality, and he knew that as time would pass, Castle Black would become more and more monotonous a proposition for him. That would be when Luwin’s own suggestion would truly take wings, and Viserys, who had spent much of his time at Winterfell in the library anyway, would travel to the Reach to earn his links. Luwin gave him four years at most. Five, perhaps, if he was chosen as a Ranger for the Watch alongside Lord Stark’s brother Benjen.  
  
And even though Maesters were not to feel attached to any person, Luwin was immensely proud of the boy. A boy he had watched grow up so alone and lonely, and who he had guided through his childhood insecurities and uncertainties. A boy who now had some kind of home at the keep where once no one had known how to treat him. The kinder men and women had termed him  _the ward_ , but he had mostly just been  _the hostage_  and  _the threat_. Soon, however, Luwin thought, despite the fact that the Night’s Watch was more or less a dwindling collection of the dungeons’ best, Viserys would start in a new world.  
  
He also did not expect gratitude in return for his presence. The duty was to serve and guide, after all. He did it because he enjoyed it. Thus, his surprise was evident when Viserys approached closer shortly after, and gave him a meaningful look.  
  
“I… thank you, Maester.”  
  
Luwin bowed. He did not know whether the boy himself knew what he was thanking him for, but he knew that it meant a great deal either way. He was not one to give compliments easily at all.  
  
The next morn, much of the household gathered outside to bid farewell to young Viserys, the Lord and Lady included. It was a sombre affair, to be honest -- nothing that might have been warranted for a second son’s departure, but surely not expected for the heir of an exiled dynasty.   
  
Viserys ruffled the hair of both young Robb, the Stark heir, and the bastard boy Jon Snow who Lady Catelyn had surprisingly not hidden away. He did the same for four nameday old Arya, squirming in her lady mother’s grasp, and Brandon, a year younger than her, frowning by his father.  
  
“You’ll come back, won’t you?” the boy questioned. Bran, as he was fondly called, had always been curious of Viserys, who though not a brother by blood, was treated just as one by his elder siblings.  
  
“Of course he will, Bran,” Robb Stark answered. He looked up at Viserys then. “You  _will_ , won’t you? Come visit us, I mean.”  
  
Viserys seemed torn. He exchanged a quick glance with Lord Eddard, who gave him a short nod. “I will try,” he conceded finally.  
  
Anything else he would have said was cut by a tiny sob at Lady Stark’s side. Luwin saw that it was Sansa, the little lady, only six namedays old. On her brow was a deep scowl while tears stained her face. Her vivid red hair, inherited from her mother, spilled over the front of her dress as she weeped.  
  
“But you only  _just_  turned six and ten! Must you leave  _now_?” she cried, as Lady Catelyn brought her close and comforted her. The young girl was another Stark fascinated by Viserys; in fact, she had sometimes insisted that it be he to read her a prince’s or princess’ tale, for he was a prince himself, no matter how much her parents and septa tried to tell her that he was not one anymore.  
  
Viserys looked somewhat uncomfortable, but he sighed, moving closer to Sansa. “I’m afraid so, little Sansa.” He looked at Lady Catelyn for permission, and then brought an almost quivering hand to touch the girl’s cheeks. “But as I told Bran, I shall be back one day. Wouldn’t you like that?”  
  
Luwin wondered if Sansa reminded the boy of his sister, the young Lady of Dragonstone. Perhaps it was why he was so soft on the Stark children, and the girls especially.  
  
Further, Viserys told Robb and Jon Snow that when he came back, he would teach them a trick or two he learned from the Wall’s Master-at-Arms, which placated both of them sufficiently. He has a place here, certainly.  _If he ever wishes to break from the monotony and not go south for a chain, he could visit with Benjen._  Lord Stark’s brother had visited Winterfell once in his four years at the Wall, after all. He was sure to visit again.  
  
Lord Stark took his ward aside for a private talk. Luwin knew that Eddard was having a word or two about the past nine years and mentioning King Robert and Prince Rhaegar in that, perhaps even Ser Jon Connington at Castle Black. It was the true farewell speech, in an essence. Viserys and Lord Stark where both private men, which had become a boon for the hostage after he had matured some.  
  
They were finished soon enough, however, and Viserys slowly mounted a palfrey beside the guard Fat Tom, who was to escort him to the Wall.  _And here we are. A phase is over indeed._  Winterfell would be different without the Targaryen boy around -- Luwin knew all gathered were thinking precisely that as Viserys rode out of the gates. In a few moments, a dot was all there was, becoming smaller and smaller by the second.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALSO: welcoming suggestions for a sequel title. Something related to _What the Storm Brings_ , preferably?


	8. Will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An encounter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This feels like a cop-out to me too, but there's a lot of important things happening in this chapter that will come to light in the sequel. Read on.

“We should start back,” Gared urged as the woods began to grow dark around them. “The wildlings are dead.”  
  
Viserys Targaryen did not look to be paying much attention to him. “Perhaps…” he trailed off, looking around, as though searching for reason for them to leave.  
  
Gared knew, though, that he did not mean his words. “Dead is dead,” he said. “We have no business with the dead.”  
  
Targaryen snorted. “You think they’re dead, do you? Do give me the proof of it, then,” he challenged.  
  
“Will saw them,” Gared argued. “If he says they are dead, that’s proof enough for me.”  
  
Will had known he would be brought into the discussion sooner or later. He wished it had been later rather than sooner. “My mother told me that dead men sing no songs,” he put in.  
  
Targaryen shook his head. It was clear he put no stock in Will’s mother’s words. “Even dead men can teach us things, I think,” he commented. He narrowed his eyes at Will then, and said, “Tell me everything you saw again. Leave nothing out.”  
  
Will had been a hunter before he joined the Night’s Watch. Well, a poacher in truth. Mallister freeriders had caught him red-handed in the Mallisters’ own woods, skinning one of Mallisters’ own bucks, and it had been the choice of putting on the black or losing a hand. No one could move through the woods silent as Will, and it had not taken the black brothers long to discover his talent.  
  
“The camp is two miles farther on, over that ridge, hard beside a stream,” Will said. “I got close as I dared. There’s eight of them, men and women both. No children I could see. They put up a lean-to against the rock. The snow’s pretty well covered it now, but I could still make it out. No fire burning, but the firepit was still plain as day. No one moving. I watched a long time. No living man lay so still.”  
  
“And… Any blood?”  
  
“Well, no,” Will admitted.  
  
“Weapons? Swords, battleaxes, bows?”  
  
“Some swords, a few bows. One man had an axe. Heavy-looking, double-bladed, a cruel piece of iron. It was on the ground beside him, right by his hand.”  
  
“Did you see how their bodies were positioned?”  
  
Will shrugged. “A couple are sitting up against the rock. Most of them on the ground. Fallen, like.”  
  
He had been sure they were dead. The woman up the ironwood, especially, halfhid in the branches. Will had taken care she had not seen him, and when he had got closer, he had found that she wasn’t moving. Recalling the scene despite himself, he shivered.  
  
Targaryen’s eyes bore into him. “The wind, m’lord,” Will explained. “‘S given me a chill.”  
  
The silver-haired youth gave a small nod. He was their commander, and a good enough one at that, but Will had never been able to shake the feeling that he was somehow someone that ought to be feared. Targaryen’s gaze was suspicious and unwavering, much like that of Ser Jon Connington back at Castle Black. He might even have thought they practiced the piercing gaze together, the two of them, but then again, they seemed to have some sort of animosity between them.  
  
“You make no sense,” Targaryen said to Gared. “You say they are dead, but there’s nothing that could have killed them.”  
  
“It was the cold,” Gared said with iron certainty. “I saw men freeze last winter, and the one before, when I was half a boy. Everyone talks about snows forty foot deep, and how the ice wind comes howling out of the north, but the real enemy is the cold. It steals up on you quieter than Will, and at first you shiver and your teeth chatter and you stamp your feet and dream of mulled wine and nice hot fires. It burns, it does. Nothing burns like the cold. But only for a while. Then it gets inside you and starts to fill you up, and after a while you don’t have the strength to fight it. It’s easier just to sit down and go to sleep. They say you don’t feel any pain toward the end. First you go weak and drowsy, and everything starts to fade, and then it’s like sinking into a sea of warm milk. Peaceful, like.”  
  
“Yes, yes.” Targaryen was growing impatient. “You say it was the cold, do you?”  
  
Gared nodded, not phased by the youth’s dismissal. He was an old man, past fifty, and to him, southron lordlings such as this Targaryen had their glory in the summer and began withering away soon as winter came.  
  
“If Gared said it was the cold…” Will began.  
  
“You must have drawn a few watches this week, Will,” Targaryen guessed. “Tell me, what did you think of the cold then? How was the Wall when you saw it?”  
  
Will suddenly knew where he was driving at. “The Wall… it was weeping, m’lord.” He frowned. “They couldn’t have froze. Not if the Wall was weeping. It wasn’t cold enough.”  
  
Targaryen nodded. “Precisely,” he said, turning to Gared, who had pulled his hood close and looked somewhat affronted. “What say you now?”  
  
Gared looked away. “It… It ought to have been something else that killed them, then.”  
  
“Fine,” Targaryen nodded. “And if the Lord Commander asks what it was, what would you tell him, old man?”  
  
There was no answer to that. Targaryen looked satisfied. “It is as I said. They might be still alive, the wildlings.” Then he turned to Gared. “And you shall find out what happened to them.”  
  
“A -- A scouting, m’lord?” the old ranger stumbled. It was clear he did not want to go. Gared had spent forty years in the Night’s Watch, man and boy, and he was not accustomed to being ordered about by an exiled lordling at all. Yet it was more than that. Under the wounded pride, Will could sense something else in the older man. He could taste it; a nervous tension that came perilous close to fear.  
  
Will shared his unease. He had been four years on the Wall. The first time he had been sent beyond, all the old stories had come rushing back, and his bowels had turned to water. He had laughed about it afterward. He was a veteran of a hundred rangings by now, and the endless dark wilderness that the southron called the haunted forest had no more terrors for him.  
  
Until tonight. As absurd as the dead wildlings had been, there was an edge to this darkness that made his hackles rise. Nine days they had been riding, north and northwest and then north again, farther and farther from the Wall, hard on the track of a band of wildling raiders. Each day had been worse than the day before it. Today was the worst of all. A cold wind was blowing out of the north, and it made the trees rustle like living things. All day, Will had felt as though something were watching him, something cold and implacable that loved him not. Gared felt it too. If Targaryen did, however, he did not show it one bit.  
  
“A scouting,” their commander agreed. He was a year or two more than twenty, handsome and thoughtful; the last heir of the fallen dynasty that had first made the Seven Kingdoms one whole. Will had grown up hearing stories of this king and that, but he remembered how seeing Viserys Targaryen had made those stories more real. It was absurd to think that he might have been a king in another world.  
  
“Will did one already, princeling,” Gared argued.  
  
“And I’m telling you to do another, Gared,” Targaryen said coolly. And then there was nothing to be done for it. The order had been given, and honour bound Gared to obey.  
  
“We’ll wait for you at camp,” Will said. With that, he watched Gared angrily make to ride away on his garron, muttering to himself.  
  
“Don’t you come back empty-handed, old man!” Targaryen called out in a warning tone. This made Gared turn back furiously. His hood shadowed his face, but Will could see the hard glitter in his eyes as he stared at the knight. For a moment, he was afraid the older man would go for his sword. It was a short, ugly thing, its grip discoloured by sweat, its edge nicked from hard use, but Will was unsure if the lordling would have been able to face it ably.   
  
Finally, Gared looked down. “Aye,” he said, low under his breath, and with that he started for beyond.  
  
As night fell, Will and Targaryen went back to their previous night’s hideout to make camp. The cold was undeniable and yet Targaryen appeared unmoved, almost bored with it. He lit the fire and told Will he would watch first, but in the end Will discovered that he was not able to sleep at all. He had his eye open for a while as he heard faint sound of eeriness in the distance and soon enough, his commander noticed.  
  
“Do you have so little faith in me, Will?” Targaryen asked, annoyed. “Do you think I am incapable of keeping watch alone?”  
  
“No, m’lord,” Will answered quickly. In truth, it was not lack of faith that had made him sneak a look at the youth, but the fact that in the firelight so late, he looked rather… ordinary. At Castle Black, they all steered clear from him, not mentioning him unless required. Targaryen kept to himself too, spending his time in the training yard (though never with Ser Jon) or mostly with old, blind Maester Aemon who some whispered was yet another exiled prince. He lived another life almost, but now the man was just another Black Brother out on a ranging beyond the Wall.  
  
“You need not speak lies,” he grunted in response. “I am not the commander you would want out here, I  _know_ that. You’ll be rid of me soon, fortunately, and I’ll be rid of you lot too.”  
  
For a moment Will thought he was going to desert, but the Targaryen boy was not an honourless coward like his father had been. Whatever else, every man of the Watch knew that he had grown up a ward of Lord Stark at Winterfell, and he knew well the difference between right and wrong. Not to mention that he was a recognisable one, Targaryen was, and his attempts to run away would likely fail anyway.   
  
As though he were reading a mind, the man before him made an irritated sound. “You need not look so shocked either, Will; I don’t plan to desert. Who do you think I am? Some spoilt little lordling? In case you didn’t know already, I have no choice. I serve, or I die. I wear black, or I wear a shroud. Of course, I shouldn’t expect  _you_ to understand that.”  
  
Will did understand, though.  _Serve or die._  It was his life now, as a Black Brother, but he knew the once-prince would shoot him down if he said something. So he stayed quiet until his dreams took him, the cold of the night passing slower than it had in the nights before, and it took Targaryen shaking him awake to realise that something was wrong.  
  
“Come on, up,” his commander said, graver than he had been when talking to Will before. It was the break of dawn, and looking around he saw Gared nowhere.  
  
“He didn’t get back, did ‘e?” he questioned. Targaryen shook his head.  
  
“He didn’t,” he affirmed. “And now we go looking for him, and those wildlings of his. As I fear we ought to have done in the first place.”  
  
Silently, Will agreed. Either they both should have gone with Gared, or the man should not have been sent at all, but Targaryen would not have listened then. Now at least, he looked to have understood his mistake.  
  
They rode silently to the ridge Will had found the wildlings near, Targaryen deep in thought and he himself feeling rather uneasy. There was something wrong in this, he knew. Something that didn’t make sense.  _Something in the cold_ …  
  
“Do we stop here?” his commander asked. They were next to the great gnarled ironwood, and he had slowed his garron to a stop. Nodding to the silver-haired youth, he dismounted.  
  
“Best go the rest of the way on foot, m’lord.”  
  
Targaryen had an unreadable look on his face, but he slid off of his horse immediately, and unsheathed his sharpest knife. He glanced around, as though searching for something, pausing soon enough when his eyes fell on a firepit not very far away.  
  
“I knew it,” he muttered softly. Turning to Will, he asked, “That pit wasn’t there yesterday, was it?”  
  
It was hard to remember, truth be told, but he did doubted it. Will shook his head.  
  
“As I thought,” Targaryen said. “Gared was foolish last night, it seems, and likely compromised his scouting because of it. Mormont will have my hide for this.”  
  
The fire could keep some things away, he knew, but it could also bring others  _to_  you.  
  
“No use crying over spilt milk, I suppose. Lead on.”  
  
So they threaded their way through a thicket, then started up the slope to the low ridge where Will had found his vantage point under a sentinel tree. Under the thin crust of snow, the ground was damp and muddy, slick footing, with rocks and hidden roots to trip you up. Will made no sound as he climbed, and neither did his commander behind him.  
  
The great sentinel was right there at the top of the ridge, where he had known it would be, its lowest branches a bare foot off the ground. Will slid in underneath, flat on his belly in the snow and the mud, and looked down on the empty clearing below.  
  
His heart stopped in his chest. For a moment he dared not to breathe. Sunlight shone down on the clearing, the ashes of the wildings’ firepit, the snow-covered lean-to, the great rock, the little half-frozen stream. Everything was just as it had been a day ago, except for one thing.  
  
The wildlings were gone. In place of their many bodies was only one, which Will could recognise easily.   
  
Gared.  
  
His face was upward, his arms spread out, and in one of his hands was clutched his sword -- a sword that looked like it had been sliced through with something sharp as ice. No wildling axe could have done that.  
  
He heard Targaryen suck in a breath behind him. Will knew he had seen it too.  
  
“You were right,” he breathed. “Dear gods, you were right, and Gared was right. We should never have come here.”  
  
That Will knew all too well. Targaryen had a pained look in his face, panicky like.   
  
“We should burn the body and start back for the Wall. The Lord Commander will want to hear this, and the First Ranger as well. This does not bode well.”  
  
In time, they walked into the clearing, weapons in hand and cautious, but there was nothing there. Nothing except Gared, whose hands and feet were still and cold to touch. Will and Targaryen built a pyre for him fast as they could and rested him on it once it was done. While he made fire, his commander observed the surroundings and the remains of Gared’s short sword. He frowned at it, glaring at it as though doing so would make it reveal its secret, but there was nothing there.  
  
“There is something very out of place here,” he mused to Will. “The wildlings were here, you say, but now they are gone. Gared came here, and we have his body, but there’s no wound to be seen and his sword is no sword anymore. This is starting to sound like… like one of Old Nan’s tales.”  
  
Will didn't know who old Nan was but he did not ask. Targaryen snorted. A single glance at him told that there was no mirth on his face. He was clearly worried about what had happened.  
  
When Gared’s body was finally aflame, Targaryen’s expression faded into sombreness. He and Will together stood by the pyre and spoke the words in unison.  
  
“Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come... and now his watch is ended.”  
  
When he glanced up from the fire, he saw that Targaryen was still looking, but there was no longer any sombreness in him either. He looked enraptured by the flames dancing up and down. Briefly he stared at it as though he had seen the Seven themselves in there, and then, suddenly, took a step back, startling Will.   
  
“M’lord?” he inquired to his commander. Viserys Targaryen appeared to have seen a ghost in the pyre, but within a few seconds he composed himself.   
  
“Nothing,” he whispered. shaking his head. “It was nothing.” But even Will could see that whatever it was, and however the youth tried to hide it, he could not remove it from his memory. And unfortunately, how much ever the distance they put between themselves and the ridge; how much ever closer they got to Castle Black, it was hard to forget that the darkness had nearly claimed them as it had old Gared.   
  
His mother had once told him that the world would end in fire. As a green boy he had listened wide-eyed to her stories of monstrous creatures in the air and fields burning by their fire. He had been convinced that whenever the final days came, they would be by dragonsbreath and heat -- heat so unbearable that he would prefer death to it. As a man of the Night’s Watch, though, he was certain she was wrong. The world would not end in fire. The world would end in ice… and now, he knew, the end was near.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry. I know what you're thinking.
> 
> But it was essential to end with this. Coming up soon, the sequel: _How the Throne Reaps_ , covers the AGoT timeline, starting with Daenerys I. I've been really busy for the past few months, but hopefully I can post it within the next two or three weeks at least.
> 
> Thank you for staying with me in the duration of this short prequel. I hope future installments don't disappoint. In the comments I'd love to hear about what you're excited to read about in the future, and what PoVs you want me to write, and I'll try fitting some in if possible though the broad outline was written ages ago. Do tell me what you think.
> 
> Again, thanks for all the comments and kudos and bookmarks in the past. I love writing this and I have no intention to stop before I finish. Cheers.


End file.
